


Come Down Like an Avalanche

by SainTalia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Direwolf is a dog breed, Domestic Bliss, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Issues, First Time, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hypothermia, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Rescue, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Content, Snowed In, all the winter tropes tbh, and Forest Ranger!Jon comes to the rescue, and Ghost is a husky-malamute mix, cuddling for warmth, fight me, in which Sansa is a stranded motorist, mentions of harassment at work, mentions of past violence both domestic and otherwise, mutual care, some past Sansa/Joffrey, things get dicey here in spots but I promise everything works out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 126,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23285065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SainTalia/pseuds/SainTalia
Summary: There aren't knights in shining armor these days, but there are Forest Rangers in pickup trucks, which in her opinion are just as good.(Or: When Sansa gets into a severe car crash in the Vale—it's Ranger Jon Snow to the rescue.)
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 1699
Kudos: 1178





	1. Couloir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sansainthenorth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansainthenorth/gifts).



> Thanks for this moodboard be to: [asongofsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asongofsnow/pseuds/asongofsnow), who made the beautiful gorgeous piece of art above and was kind enough to gift it to me for this fic.
> 
> Ever lurk in a relationship tag so long, you feel morally obligated to write fic for it? No? Just me?
> 
> Anyhow: thanks be to sansainthenorth, she of the lovely Jonsa fic and lovelier heart, who put up with all my overwrought emails and was my sounding-board for this story. Frankly, she was the one who inspired me to write this in the first place. Her encouragement also revitalized me into finishing my monster MCU fic which is currently wrapping up.
> 
> Thank you a thousand times, dear.
> 
> To everybody else, I know how stressful things are right now with the pandemic, and I unfortunately can't do anything to change things there. But I can at least promise you that no matter how scary or dark things might seem in this story, obstacles are overcome, things do get better, and the world is left softer for our lovebirds.
> 
> Please note three things: one, I'm slightly altering the geography of Westeros. The Bite (bay) between the Vale and the North doesn't exist. The Vale just straight-shots nearly all the way to White Harbor. Two, this fic uses an unholy mashup of American and British slang, and I apologize for nothing. Three, there is a hurt dog in this but I promise THE DOG IS AND WILL BE FINE. Thank you.

The bite of the cold came first; on her face, in her fingers, on the roof of her mouth coated wet with rust.

The wind whistled faintly. It felt like floating on a stagnant river, slippery and heavy with rot. Her brain was in one place; her body another.

There was light in her eyes. Out the windshield, the trees listed at a nauseating angle.

_What in the...?_

She grasped blindly for the keys and found them in the ignition. She tried to turn them. Couldn’t—they were already in the on-position.

The engine was dead, the airbag had deployed, and the trees were sideways.

Bile surged. “No—” Her pulse hammered. “No no no—"

Lady whimpered. There was a tinkle of broken glass and then a wailing yelp.

“Lady.” Sansa fumbled for her seat belt. “Baby, stay there. Please, please, stay there—"

Lady’s nails kept scrabbling, and Sansa finally found the lock. The belt came loose, and then so did she. “Shit—” Pain exploded in her hip as she cracked against the middle console. At the last second, she managed to brace between the steering wheel and the next seat before she finished plunging to the passenger door.

Her brain sloshed in her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut. Opened them. Gods above, it wasn’t the trees that were listing.

The car had rolled.

The passenger doors were against the ground and the tires were airborne. The side windows were shattered and past her feet, she could see snow and glass and dirt and—her phone pulverized into the ground.

“Shit. _Shit._ ”

Lady made a wounded noise.

Sansa felt her heart crack. “Lady, no no no, honey—it’s okay. It’s okay. Stay there. Stay—” The angle was punishing. She didn’t give a gods _damn_. Sansa pushed a foot to the dashboard, reoriented so her head was upwards—the back of her neck crammed to the driver’s window—then wiggled sideways between the seats and into the back of the car.

On the crumpled remains of the rear door, Lady was hunched over, her front left-leg tucked upwards and the rest of her body shaking. Lady was panting hard, and when she saw Sansa climbing through, she tried to scramble up again.

“Lady, no!”

The dog flinched. Sansa immediately and quite viciously wanted to throttle herself. “Shhhhhhh. I’m sorry baby, I’m so sorry.” And then finished dropping to what was now the bottom of the car. Her hands felt strange, numb, but she pushed them through Lady’s fur and settled the dog into her lap as best as she could, mindful of the splint on Lady’s already injured leg. “Shhhhhhhh. It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

Broken glass dug into her jeans. What snow there was stuck to her shins and began to melt. The ground was hard and shockingly cold as she really grasped, for the first time, the situation they were fully in.

Her throat burned. “Stupid _._ Stupid stupid _stupid—”_

The car was sideways. There were cracks in the front windshield where the wind was whistling through. She remembered the road, that twisting serpent up the Vale. The snow falling. Talking to Lady in the backseat; the radio humming. Storm warnings. Storm alarms. The curve that had suddenly twisted away. The hard slide. The railing breaking, the railing _breaking_ , and the plunge—

Acid hit the back of her throat. She turned fast and jammed her mouth into her shoulder.

Lady cried softly and nosed at her chin. The nausea passed. There was still blood, though, tacky at the back of her teeth. She didn’t know the source.

“I’m sorry.” She told her dog. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Lady just pushed her soft head into Sansa’s chest, and kept her splinted leg and paw tucked in. Sansa was sorry for that, too. “You shouldn’t be stuck with me. You deserve someone better. All I do is get you hurt, and fuckup, and I can’t, I can’t—” The sob ripped ugly out of her mouth. Lady curled tightly into her, and Sansa kept sobbing over her dog and her own rapidly numbing legs.

The minutes jagged away. Eventually, the crying passed. “Okay.” She took a shaking breath. “Okay, we’re okay.”

She wiped at her face, and Lady licked her arm then shoved her nose straight into Sansa’s stomach. It hurt something in her side. It hurt worse when she curled over and pressed kisses to Lady’s fluffy ears.

A light came on. Blinked off. On—and then static crackled: _“_ _This is_ _Seastar Emergency, we’ve been alerted that there’s been a crash. Is anyone hurt?”_

Sansa nearly whiplashed towards the dash. “No—no. I don’t think so; just Lady.”

_“And what are Lady’s injuries?”_

Guilt churned as she looked down at her dog’s leg. She swallowed. “Her front leg’s broken.”

_“I’m sorry—her front leg?”_

“Lady’s my dog.” She answered defensively. “She’s hurt.”

_“Alright that’s just fine. We’ll make a note of that. Can I ask whom I’m speaking to?”_

“Sansa Stark.”

_“Okay, Sansa, my name is Shae. Are you hurt?”_

“I don’t…” Her teeth were slick. Her front hurt, and so did her side. “I’m not sure, I think it’s just bruising.”

_“Any sharp pains in your head, neck, or back?”_

Her face was still twinging from the airbag. “No.”

_“Alright, Sansa. That’s excellent. Can you tell me what happened?”_

“I was driving. There was—I’m not sure. There was a curve, but it suddenly went the other way. It’s snowing and the roads were slick. I think we hit the barrier.”

_“Are you still in the road, Sansa?”_

“No.” There was a break somewhere in her memory. The road, the slide, the terror. Nothing. Ground. The trees back in focus.

“We went through it.” The snow was falling harder. “We fell.”

_“How far?”_

“I don’t know.” And she was only getting colder.

_“Okay, that’s fine, we’ll come back to that. Sansa, is the car running?”_

“The key’s still in, but the engine’s dead.”

_“I see.”_

Saw what, exactly _?_

“Shae?”

_“I’m here, Sansa. Sorry, I was looking at something on my screen. What’s the current situation around you?”_

“It’s snowing.” And it was getting harder to see outside as it heaped upon the windows. The car was darkening fast. “We fell down far. There are trees—a lot of trees.” And they were slowly being buried under them.

_“Sansa, can you get back up to the road?”_

“I don’t know.” And it was rapidly growing frustrating to admit it. “I just—” She was so cold, and she realized, horrifyingly: _damp_. All those years of living in the far North finally thundered into gear. “I need to change.”

_“What’s wrong?”_

“I’m wet, the car’s on its side, and the windows on the bottom are shattered. It’s really cold. I need to get dry.”

_“Okay, do that first. Make sure your socks are dry too and keep yourself elevated off the ground. Let me know when you’re done.”_

“Uh-huh.” She was already clamoring over Lady to get her purse from where it’d been tossed. She’d only brought one change of clothes. It hurt, gods did it _hurt_ , but she shimmied out of her jeans and then used the dry half of them to try and get any moisture off her skin.

Once bared, her legs were unnaturally pale. She could see every vein shot through them, cold and blue. She rubbed at them fitfully and then hurried into the leggings she’d had balled-up in her purse.

That’s when she saw the crumpled letter that’d been pulled out with them. That awful fucking _letter_. The one that started this mad dash on no sleep and a poor plan, all ahead of the bloody storm of the century, to try and save—

She bit down on another sob and stuffed the envelop back into her purse. Grief was a luxury, and there was no time for that now.

She looked down at Lady. Elevated? She grabbed for the seat lever and yanked it. The backseat popped open to reveal the trunk, and light poured through.

“Gods _damn_ it.” Something that looked suspiciously like a tree branch had punctured through the trunk. Snow was already seeping in, heavy and wet to the touch.

So much for using it as a cocoon.

She pulled out her winter driving kit and what supplies she could find, and then pushed the seat back into place to seal off the trunk. Through careful shifting of Lady, the ground sheet usually meant for changing a tire went down into the broken window first. She made sure the edges came up into the car and kicked out all the snow.

Next went every floor mat from the car on top of it. After that followed two old beach towels she’d forgotten in the trunk, remnants of summer swims in Blackwater Bay. Finally, she laid down the first blanket from the kit.

She took the kit’s winter gloves and broke open two hand warmers. She cupped the packets in her palms as she pulled on the gloves over them.

The strange numbness in her hands faded. There was a sweater. A hat. She took off her jacket only long enough to get the sweater over herself, then tugged it back on and pulled the knit cap over her hair. From the kit she got a metal coffee can, took the dry matches from it, then lit one. She reached back into the can for the wick of the large candle inside. It caught, and she put the vented cover Bran had built for it back on.

She, Sansa Stark, was now in possession of a makeshift heater. She put it down in the curve of Lady’s belly, and Lady wrapped around it with an upset snuffle.

Sansa took the second blanket from the kit and carefully tucked her dog in. They were okay. Heater. Warm hands. Dry bodies. Elevated off the ground.

“Shae?”

_“I’m still here. Are you dry? Do you have a good coat?”_

“Yes.” And the coat she’d brought from KL would just have to last her.

_“Are you sure the engine is dead? Have you tried restarting the car?”_

“I couldn’t get the key to move, how are you even talking to me?”

_“Seastar Emergency is wired directly into the battery. But Sansa, this means us talking will drain it. And if you can’t restart the car, you can’t recharge it, and you won’t be able to get the cabin any warmer.”_

She already knew that. The wind was whistling through every crack, sharp as a boning knife.

The clock was ticking. “Are you leaving us?”

_“No, Sansa, I’m not leaving you. But we may have to go to periodic check-ins while we’re waiting for emergency services to reach you. But that part will come later, okay?”_

She steeled herself. “Okay.”

There was a long and staticky hum. “ _Now Sansa, this is important, alright? Think hard about this. Do you know where you are?”_

Did they think she was concussed? “In the Vale, in the Alpine National Reserve. Two of the highways through the Neck got closed because of flooding, or the storm—I don’t know. I was going to White Harbor; WestMaps diverted me through one of the eastern gates.”

_“Which Gate?”_

She couldn’t remember; it hadn’t been important. The map had been directing and that had been enough for her. She’d had to get to White Harbor, to Arya. It’d been the fastest way to beat the storm and the clock at her job. “Pine Gate…” A lump stuck. “I think.”

_“Pine Gate leads onto North-45. How far did you get before the crash?”_

Her stomach was starting to hurt. She crouched down and rubbed at Lady’s ears. “I don’t know.”

_“How long were you on the road after you passed the Gate?”_

“I think…thirty minutes, maybe a little longer?”

_“And how fast were you going?”_

She could see where this was heading. “Five under the speed limit, with the snow. But—” But. “There was a road closure. The signs were orange; they said the pass was closed for inclement weather. I got on another road, and that went North, but…”

It’d been winding, the asphalt nearly reduced to gravel, and the GPS on her phone had started cutting out. The roads had split off at least twice, and she hadn’t fully been paying attention. She’d just wanted to get _North._ To Arya. They’d been at each other’s throats their whole lives, but her sister would have helped her. Would have taken Lady in; protected her.

Protected her in every way that Sansa had failed to.

_“Okay, back up. Tell me exactly what route you took, and where you’re going. Front to end.”_

“I left King’s Landing at 2AM. I went north on the King’s Road to—” She told Shae everything. Backwards and forwards: KL, the King’s Road, gas stations, the closure in the Neck, diverting east, the Gate, the splits.

She’d been on the road for eleven hours. She hadn’t slept in two days.

It left something niggling in the back of her skull, and the itch of that spread quick. “Why can’t you locate the car through the GPS? That’s what Seastar is supposed to do, right?”

The line dropped away. Hesitated.

Her stomach bottomed out. “Shae, just tell me. Please.”

The static hissed, crackled. And then it broke: _“We think the crash damaged the internal systems of the car. The linkup is drawing power, but the GPS connection is either loose or damaged. Your signal is bouncing all over the Vale.”_

Gods. Holy _Gods._

_“I’m in contact with Arryn Troopers and emergency services. They’re going to help us figure out exactly where you are. Just stay in your car and keep warm until they get there.”_

Everything felt too heavy. Too sharp. Too _bright_. “I need to…” Her throat struggled. “I need to cover the other window. There’s still—cold, getting in.”

_“Do that right away,. I’m going to get off the line, Sansa. While I’m gone, you need to get the car as insulated as you can make it. I’ll check back in fifteen minutes, okay?”_

She wondered if Shae would stay if she begged, but Sansa knew that she couldn’t. “Okay.”

The light in the dash clicked off, and the car was silent but for the wind. For a minute, she watched the cracks in the windshield: frost was starting to spider through. It looked like ferns. Fractals. Stars.

They were in it, now, and they were in it deep.

“Stupid.” She jammed her palms to her skull and _pushed_. “Stupid little girl. Stupid, stupid girl _._ You’ve _fucked_ _yourself_.”

Her ribs throbbed, trembled, _burned_ , and she stopped pushing.

Self-loathing was a luxury, too.

There was a knife in the winter kit. She climbed into the front and used it to cut the airbag from the steering wheel. That went down into where the front passenger window had once been. She examined it for a minute as it stirred, an icy wind still managing to snake between the crumpled metal and the ground below.

Lady whined pitifully and stuck her nose between the door and seat.

Sansa patted it gently. “It’s okay, girl. I’m right here.” And got a fistful of wet nose and a sneeze for her trouble.

She climbed into the back and reopened the entry into the trunk. The space inside was already bitterly cold. She ripped up the liner, pulled it into the car, and then shut the seat quickly. She ignored Lady’s hopeful snuffles at her hip to climb back into the front and throw the liner down.

She stared at the heavy lump it made. Gods; she was building hills of sand against the wind. Warmth would not be generated now, only maintained. Every bit of it she lost would be lost for good.

Lady was breathing hard, painful little hitches that echoed so loudly. Sansa climbed back a third time and was welcomed with little doggy thumps of Lady’s tail. It broke her heart all over again, and that piece of her had already been shattered.

Once they were cuddled back up, each of them swaddled in their own blanket, she scrounged up a pain pill out of the prescription from the Vet. She offered it to Lady mashed in peanut butter between two crackers. Lady took it delicately off her fingers and then scarfed it.

“Greedy baby.”

Lady very primly lifted her nose.

“Yes, you.” She ruffed her girl’s fur up, smoothed it, then scratched under her chin in the way that Lady liked best.

Sansa had a little food from the gas stations, and then whatever granola and dried fruit was in the kit. Lady, thank the gods, had her entire doggy-bin of dry food along to leave with Arya. There was a gallon of water for Lady’s dish, and then the water bottle Sansa had brought for herself.

If they had to, they could eat snow, but it’d be a last resort. Snow robbed the body of heat so easily.

She stayed with Lady on the floor, put a little water into a dish on her lap for her dog to drink from, and then did the hardest part: wait.

/~/~/~/

The first hour was more boring than painful. With her phone destroyed and the car dead, there was only so much to amuse herself with. The windows had been blanketed within the first ten minutes, and the windshield had frosted white. She couldn’t see outside, and there was only so much _I Spy_ one could play with a dog before it got discouraging.

“I spy with my little eye—”

Lady whuffled.

“I didn’t even give you any hints.”

The dog smushed her head farther into Sansa’s hip. It sent a deep burn cresting up her side.

“It’s not pets, you already guessed that twice.”

Lady whined.

 _“Fine._ I’ll let it be pets one more time, but that’s it!”

She hadn’t stopped petting Lady once for the past hour. She’d eaten one granola bar and taken three swallows of water. Lady had taken to the water dish twice and wolfed down four handfuls of food. They were fine, really, it was just taking the Troopers awhile to find them. The roads had to be getting worse out there. The true force of the storm would be setting in at dusk.

Shae checked-in every quarter hour. “ _Are you sure you came through Pine Gate?”_

“I think so. The sign had trees…I thought it had…there were trees.” She tried to firm up the claim. “It did.”

_“Are you certain it wasn’t the Bloody Gate you came in?”_

Her brain sidetracked. The Bloody Gate was _such_ a historical site. She had no true eye for weapons, but she’d once held a steel sword said to have been carried by a Tully Knight of the Gate during the Targaryen Occupation. It had been so lovely in her carefully gloved hand.

She shook the thought away. No luxuries. “I don’t know where that is from here, but I don’t think so.” Geography had never been her strong suit.

 _“Troopers say that Pine Gate was blocked off sometime around 9AM this morning in preparation for the storm.”_ Probably to stop this very thing that had happened to her. She should have just taken the last bridge through the Neck, damn the traffic and damn the sick days and _damn_ Mr. Baelish. “ _You said you entered the Vale around noon.”_

“I don’t know what to tell you, I just went through whatever Gate was nearest to the Neck bypass.”

_“Okay, Sansa. Okay. I’ll let them know.”_

The second hour was slower, and the daylight was waning.

“I wonder how long it’ll take anyone to realize we’re missing.” She frowned at that. “Gods, Mr. Baelish would notice first, wouldn’t he?” And that realization was just depressing. Her mom would only notice after four or five days. Her dad—weeks.

Lady grumbled into her blanket.

“I know, I know. But he’s my boss, he’d sniff out one of his appraisers pulling an MIA in a flat second. I already called in sick today…maybe he’ll think I’m sick again, yeah?”

Lady didn’t dignify that hopeless optimism with a response.

“No.” She felt feverish. “I wonder if he’ll fire me. But you know, if I’m already dead…”

She let that thought trail away unfinished.

Shae arrived for her check-in at the bottom of the hour. _“Sansa, count the turns for me again one more time.”_

“Gods—fine. _Fine._ I started at—”

During the third hour, her breath began to mist. Candle wax was puddling in the bottom of the coffee can. The world was gray.

She whispered into Lady’s fur: “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you about Joffrey.”

Beneath her, Lady sighed, slow and heavy against Sansa’s chest.

“You never liked him.” Her lashes were sinking. “You were always so much smarter than me.”

On the dash, a light blinked on. The line opened: “ _Sansa_?”

She sat upright. “I’m here.”

 _“That’s good_.” But there was a tension to it that stung the air. “ _I need you to do something for me.”_

They hadn’t exchanged more than a few words of safety and comfort for the past three check-ins. Something was different, and her pulse kicked up. “What is it?”

 _“I want you to know that everyone here at Seastar and with emergency services is doing everything possible to locate you, but as of now, no one can find your car._ _I need you to get outside and get as specific a description of the location you’re in as possible. If you can get up to the road, please try and find a sign of some kind or a landmark. If there’s a house, or any kind of building, go there.”_

“But Lady—”

_“Someone can come back for Lady.”_

Sansa knew if she left the car, they’d be bleeding heat. She only had on street shoes and leggings. There was wet snow outside that was probably up past her shins.

Shae knew it, too, and was asking her to go out there regardless.

That was it, then. Her insides went to water. To tar; hot and weak and pulsing out out _out_.

They’d passed the point of no return.

“Okay.” But if she was going to do this, gods willing, she was going to be smart about it. “Just let me get ready. Can you call back in ten minutes?”

 _“I can, Sansa.”_ And the line fizzled.

She took her jeans from where they were hung, now crackling with ice, and wrapped them around the coffee can. She’d get them as warm as possible. They’d be wet, but better wet pants for a few short minutes then no dry pants at all later.

She considered what she was about to do long and hard. She took off her socks and put her shoes back on. She’d need at least one dry foot covering after this, and she couldn’t walk around out there with socks.

What else?

She racked her brain, and then grabbed the rain poncho from the kit and pulled it atop of everything else. Dry leggings, dry socks, dry coat. Dry as humanly possible.

There was so little heat to spare, now.

“Be good for mama, okay?”

Lady’s head tilted, her ears fluffed up and perked.

“I know you will.” She kissed her dog’s fuzzy head. “I’ll be back soon, alright?”

Lady woofed once, and with that, Sansa in her damp jeans climbed back into the front and unlatched the driver’s door. She pushed up _hard._

Ice strained and shattered. The wind knifed through. The cold was punishing and snow was driving straight into her eyes. It was falling so heavily that she almost couldn’t see. The trees around them were broken in places; branches snapped and bark sheared. The pines must have half caught them on the way down.

She looked up.

Adrenaline _hammered._

The drop was steep. Sheer; grey stone with black fissures and straight down all the way to the earth. She could barely see the lip of what must have been the road, as far up as it was in the blizzard.

They shouldn’t even be _alive._

They were inside a gully, and it only sheared away deeper behind them. Dizzyingly. If the trees hadn’t caught them—gods, _gods._ There was no way up to the road, not without a long hike in some hope of a gentler incline that might never found.

“Mother Maiden Father Crone—” She swiveled once, twice, trying to take everything in as quickly as humanly possible. Within fifteen seconds, she had the car door slammed shut against the cold.

_“Sansa? Are you there?”_

Fear had been constant for the last few hours, ebbing and flowing, but never truly stopping her.

The terror was _crippling_. Stars. Frost. Lights. She sucked in air like a woman drowning.

_“Sansa?”_

She was sweating; she could feel it breaking out along her back. She had to stop. Just _stop_. There wasn’t anything left to spare. “There’s no way up.” She choked on a gasp. “We went straight off a drop. There’s no way. We can’t.”

She’d killed herself.

She’d killed Lady.

That one stupid letter in the mail, that last flake to set off an avalanche, and she’d killed them both. Cersei would laugh herself sick when she heard.

“I don’t know what to do.”

 _“Tell me what you saw.”_ Shae commanded, and since she didn’t know what else to try, Sansa did just that.

When she was done, Shae prodded her with another dozen questions. Some of them had long, long pauses between them. A discussion was clearly happening on the other end that didn’t involve her, but Sansa was too lightheaded to ask.

Shae finally said: _“Hold on a few minutes, I need to speak with someone.”_ And then stepped off the line completely.

It was done. She crouched down, head between her knees, and breathed shallowly.

She didn’t know how long the silence lasted. Lady was nosing between the seats again and whimpering. Sansa put one hand to the floor and watched Lady lick it.

“I’m sorry.”

Lady licked her hand again.

_“Can you hear me?”_

Sansa pressed her head to her knees. “Yes.”

_“Do you have any road flares?”_

“I…” Her head snapped up. “What—yes.”

_“Can you throw well?”_

“What?”

_“I need you to go outside, get on top of your car, and throw a lighted flare up onto the road. But if you can’t do it, there’s no point in wasting heat.”_

It wasn’t anything she was good at, but Lady had _protected_ her. And Sansa would return that favor sevenfold. “I can try.”

_“Then let’s talk logistics.”_

Forty minutes and a long perusal of the instructions on the flare—half an hour of guaranteed light, rain or shine or the Long Night cometh—Shae sent her up and out of the car. The winds remained as brutalizing. The snow was slippery, and after shutting the door, she had to cling to the side of the car for a long minute before she could bring herself to stand.

The snow was sticking to every branch, every trunk, every nook and cranny. It had turned the world white, but the sky above it was bruised dark. The storm had not even begun its reign.

This was it.

She stood, then braced. Snow was caked to her legs, her hat, her hands. It laid its kiss across her aching mouth. She shook herself loose of it and pulled off the cap. She struck the flare.

Light erupted like a nova in her hands. Red. Red. _Red._

A single star. A single chance.

 _“Come find us_.” And then she cocked her arm back and threw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which car crashes and emergencies are had, but Sansa Stark rises to the occasion like a BAMF.
> 
> Now, POVS will alternate in this, and Jon's is coming up next chapter. First and second chapter are pure Sansa or Jon. Every other chapter will have both of their POVs (sometimes switching multiple times!) in them.
> 
> Next chapter will be posted in a week so I don't leave you guys on too much of a (lol literal) cliffhanger. After that, the gaps will be longer as I haven't finished writing this yet, and don't want to stress myself out keeping too tight a schedule. This story likely won't have more than 15 chapters, and I'm truthfully aiming for 12 right now. But we'll see how that goes.
> 
> I hope you lot enjoy this Jonsa foray up into the wintry mountains. Thanks for reading, and FYI: I always answer any comments!


	2. Anchors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again be to sansainthenorth, my sounding board and muse for all this wintry drama. And thank you as well to S_M_F (Autistic_Ace), who proofreads and attempts valiantly to force me into using apostrophes and grammar like a normal human being. Couldn't do it without either of you.
> 
> Note this chapter's timeline runs concurrently to the last one—and then pushes beyond it.
> 
> Now: enter Jon Snow, stage left.

The grind of the chainsaw drowned out all else. The world was narrowed to a single point: the branch, the guide bar, the chain tearing steadily along. Wood shavings and snow ricocheted off his goggles, but he kept his hands steady.

The saw juked. He let off, then pressed on. Another kickback didn’t buck, but he kept a hand on the kill switch regardless. Finally, the chainsaw glided through the last two inches and through. The branch trembled and then tumbled away. He watched it go.

Sixty feet down, the impact hardly made a sound. From this height the branches seemed little more than kindling.

Twenty-eight down, only another dozen to go.

He braced a boot to the tree trunk and squeezed the brake. The chainsaw idled back, and Jon Snow gave a quick one-two-three check to the points on his harness before swinging to the next branch. The ice that had gathered on the rappel line shattered, and it dusted him in a needle-point glitter.

He’d just revved up the saw up for another go, when he felt a buzzing against his ribcage.

Jon sighed hard, breath bleeding fog through his mask, then reengaged the break. He peeled back the Kevlar layer of his jacket to the radio pinned on his chest. With another sigh he yanked down the balaclava from his mouth, shattering the ice there, and took his first free breath in three hours.

It spilled white on the air. It knifed cold in his lungs.

He thumbed the radio. “Ranger Snow to Control, you read me?”

_“Control reads you, Ranger Snow. We’ve got the Old Bear on the line for you. Confirmed?”_

“Confirmed.”

“ _Patching you through now.”_

“Understood.” And leaned against the tree trunk and waited. While the line cycled, he scratched at the ice already crusting to his beard.

Beyond the branches of the pines, white flakes drifted by. Heavy. Heavy. Heavier.

Mormont came on. “ _Snow, Troopers got a problem further down in the valleys. Missing motorist.”_

“Shit.” And he scrubbed at the sweat on his brow before it froze to his face. “I’ve got another dozen branches to clear on Heart’s Home Pass before the storm. How bad is it?”

“A _ccording to the Troopers and what they’ve heard from Seastar, a car went through a barrier and rolled.”_

Well, _fuck_.

Mormont continued: _“The driver’s got an injured dog with her, and they’ve been searching for about an hour now. No joy.”_

Jon killed the chainsaw entirely and the woods shivered to silence. “Alright, give me details on the way down. I’m leaving the line open.”

He rappelled down the fast way. The friction melted every bit of ice on his gloves. By the time he got to the bottom, pulled off his harness, loosed the rope, and hiked back with his gear to his truck, he had all the details needed.

They didn’t paint a pretty picture. “And they’ve been focusing past the Bloody Gate?”

“ _Only one in the Vale that was open past noon. The girl was on the road about half an hour before the crash, or so Corbray says. They’ve been searching all the ditches and gullies on every main thoroughfare.”_

He built a mental map. “A lot of logging roads thereabouts, have they tried those yet?”

“ _I’ll ask, but you know how the Troopers feel about suggestions.”_

“I know.” He flung the chainsaw into the bed of the truck with unnecessary force. It clattered harshly. He stilled his hands, breathed deep, and then rooted himself _down_. “What’s her name?”

_“What?”_

“The girl?” He asked. “What’s her name?”

Mormont grumbled up a squall, but then delivered: “ _Sansa.”_

Jon pulled off-channel. He waited a moment, felt the snow. The ice. That aching cold. “Pretty.” And then pulled the line back open. “What do you want me to do?”

_“Nooks and crannies, Ranger. Head down there and help out. They need every able body they can get; the storm’s going to be picking up soon.”_

Jon looked to the southwest. The peaks of the Vale dotted the horizon, white and blue as morning frost. They all jagged upwards against a black behemoth of a sky. “Alright, Sir. Heading down now.”

The wind kicked up.

_“Then keep me posted.”_

/~/~/~/

An hour later, he had as little joy as the Troopers did. Jon took his teeth to the wrist of his glove and yanked it off. He kept one hand on the wheel while the other jerked up the map again. The Trooper search patterns were marked in blue. His were marked in red.

It was an ugly mishmash of nothing to show.

He was fifty minutes back out from the Bloody Gate, and every nook and cranny he searched was still empty of his lost girl.

“Damn it.” He dropped the map and grabbed for the radio. He dialed into the federated channel and reported: “Nothing on Spruce Tree Point, over.”

 _“Got you, Ranger.”_ He couldn’t tell if that was Marq Grafton or one of the Belmore’s answering. It likely didn’t matter. _“We’ve got bupkis out on Redfort, are we sure anybody is even lost out here?”_

Jon snarled and tossed the receiver back onto the seat. Bloody fucking Troopers and their bloody fucking bullshit—

He squeezed the steering wheel hard and dragged it back in. Not the time, not when the girl was out there.

It’d been two hours since she’d gone missing, and the roads had graduated from moderately concerning to verging on difficult. Time wasn’t their friend, and neither was the storm. The roadsides were starting to misshape and the guardrails were vanishing under the drifts.

“Think, Snow. By the gods, _think.”_ There was another narrow switchback in the direction of the Eyrie, but it was damn hard to get to. There was a breakoff by Cedar’s Trail that was nearer, but about a mile in, it stopped having guardrails entirely.

If there was one thing he’d been assured of, it was that the girl had gone _through_ a rail.

They were chasing shadows.

The wipers kept working furiously, but it was getting hard to see. He glanced up through the windshield. The black was closer now. It had veiled-off half the sky. It wouldn’t be much longer.

He drove on.

/~/~/~/

It was nearing three hours without her. The winds were lashing, and after putting chains on his tires, he’d swung back in another unchecked direction towards the Bloody Gate. She couldn’t have gotten any farther. Somehow, someway, they’d missed her.

He kept pushing. Empty. Empty. Empty.

_Where in the gods' name are you?_

The girl didn’t have a working engine, or any way to get warm. The snowfall was getting so heavy the roads would be impassable by nightfall.

If they didn’t find her soon—

It might be days before they could try again. Weeks before they could man a full search. Months before the snows would melt, and instead they’d be looking for—

_Fuck that._

Jon eased on the breaks and didn’t even bother aiming for a ditch. There were only drifts now, and the roads themselves were starting to become a memory. If he left them, he wasn’t sure he’d find his way back.

He’d have to drop down the plow on his truck soon. It’d slow him down, but no-going was worse than slow.

He let the engine idle and took up the radio. “Ranger Snow to Mormont, how copy?”

The line fizzed for only a few seconds. “ _Hard copy. I take it you’re not calling to tell me the happy news?”_

“No.” And his knuckles flexed hard. “I need you to get whoever it is over at Seastar to stop talking to the Troopers and start talking to us. We’re missing something.”

_“You know that’ll cause trouble.”_

“If we don’t find her tonight, the girl’s dead. You know that, I know that. The Troopers know that. Someone’s fucking up here, and I want to know who.” He took a harsh breath. “No, I want to find her, put her in my truck, and _then_ I want to know who.”

 _“Mind your temper, Snow._ ” But Jon heard the surrender in the censure. Sometimes it got his ass chewed out, but other times, it bought him a chance. It’d be a slim one, but they always were. It’d been that way since their days on the Wall. “ _I’ll see what I can manage. Hold on.”_

Mormont must have actually agreed with him, because it only took ten minutes for him to come back on and say: “ _The girl was coming from King’s Landing and trying to get up to White Harbor. She was near the Twins when she heard about closures on the Neck, so she headed our way. Snow,_ ” There was a long and ugly pause. _“Seastar says the girl came through Pine Gate.”_

It felt like a shiver. Like a surge. Like a river of blood crashing down his spine. “Pine Gate.”

_“I radioed Corbray. He says Piney was closed at nine.”_

“Says.” Very slowly, Jon picked up his map. From the Twins, Pine Gate was about a half-hour break east. The Bloody Gate, however, was a nearly three-hour backtrack all the way to the Crossroads.

Either somebody was wrong, or somebody was lying.

Fury roiled hot. “Those absolute _motherfuckers.”_

_“We don’t know for sure—”_

“Remember that fuckup with the skiers at Longbow? We know for sure!” And he ripped his hat off and scraped his hands through his hair. The sky was hammering down outside. The world was white and would sooner be black. Corbray was covering somebody’s ass, and they’d wasted _three hours._ “Can you put me through to Seastar?”

That Mormont didn’t even try to reprimand him, told Jon clear the kind of shit they were in now. “ _Not directly, but...”_ There was a scramble of feedback. Hissing.

The line was choppy, but he heard a flattened voice. “ _Ranger Snow?”_

It was the sort of sound the radio only got when one receiver was placed against another. It’d have to do. “Speaking. You’re the one talking to the girl, yeah?”

 _“Yes, my name is Shae._ ” It was hard to tell through the static, but her words had a certain edge of disgust. _“Is somebody over there finally willing to listen to me?”_

He scoffed. “Rangers actually get shit done, so I’d appreciate you not lumping us in with them.” Then jammed the radio between his head and shoulder, and threw the truck into gear. “Ask your girl to get a description of where’s she’s at. There’s no time for a grid search now, I need whatever you and her can give me.”

Shae immediately buckled down to business. _“Right away, Ranger.”_ And then Mormont yanked the receivers apart.

Jon winced at the shriek of feedback, then dialed back into the federated channel. “This is Snow, I need units to head up with me towards Pine Gate.”

The line started chattering.

“ _Gate’s closed up there, no way the girl got that far.”_

_“We’ve still got a grid to clear, Snow, so keep to your sector, or—”_

_“God, it’s not that Pine Gate shit again, is it? Would you tell that bitch at Seastar to get it through her little head that—”_

This time, it was clear when Grafton came on. The man was second only to Colonel Corbray in the field, and he didn’t possess a single word in his head that didn’t come from the Colonel first. The man rumbled: _“Ranger Snow, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop trying to pull my men off the search. We’ve only got another two hours before the FO calls it for safety.”_

Jon let his first impulse pass him. He let the second, third, and even the fourth go by too. He bit down. “There is no way going from the Twins to the Bloody Gate makes sense as a route North. She—” He swallowed down the fifth impulse as well, and split the difference. “She must have slipped past the locals’ checkpoint at Piney. I need people, gear—maybe an ambulance once we find her. I’m requesting assistance from the Arryn Troopers Field Office to head up there and search.”

And he was requesting it from Grafton and Corbray both, on the logged and recorded Federated Radio Channel.

But Grafton didn’t give a shit. _“If you want to go on a wild goose chase, Snow, feel free.”_ And then the line simply dropped.

Jon sucked a breath through his teeth. The truck rumbled on. He made sure not to overcorrect into the next curve. Then, all at once, he was pointed North.

“Fuck.” He felt it in his jaw, his chest, down to the bloody churn in his guts.

He felt it. That absolute, immolating _rage_. _“Fuck!”_

They were going to kill her. Somebody was lying, somebody else was covering, and they were going to kill her over _nothing._

The imaginings he’d kept locked in his skull finally spiraled outwards. A girl; soft hands, long hair, pale as frost. Curled up and shaking. Freezing; a miserable dog dead or dying beside her. Alone, hope waning: believing that nobody was coming to save her.

At that nightmare, something in him fissured open and _red_.

The rage banked. Simmered; became something that he could use. Come hell or high water, he’d find her. Damn the storm, damn the Troopers, and damn bloody fucking Corbray.

It was time to go North.

/~/~/~/

Shae came back on the radio with all sorts of descriptions of the crash site. After a back and forth of a dozen questions between him, Shae, and his lost girl, only one detail stood out. “Sheer face, black crevices? Are you sure?”

_“Are you asking me to repeat myself, Ranger?”_

“No.” He pressed the receiver to his chin and rebuilt the mental map. There were some places further south in the Vale that fit the description. Some even near the Bloody Gate, but most of those had already been searched, and the rest were impossible to get to by car.

Up ahead, he saw the road closure for North-45. The signs were nearly buried in the snow. “I have an idea, but visibility is getting down to nothing out here—can…” He thought on it harder. “Does your girl have road flares? Can she throw one up to the road? Not right away, but soon. I’m going to be crawling in a bit, and those things don’t last long.”

 _“I can find out. Give me a few minutes.”_ And Shae slipped off the channel.

Mormont pulled the receivers apart again. “ _You’re thinking Oldstones Road, aren’t you?”_

He was already peeling onto it. “It’s right off 45, and heads north solid until it dead-ends up near one of the peaks. But that wouldn’t be obvious from here, and with the cliffs and the guardrail—”

“ _Agreed_.” And then Mormont rasped: “ _Snow, you’ve got an hour before the worst moves in. If you’re not moving back to North Base by then, you’ll need to consider camping in your truck_.”

“Noted.” He was already well aware of the fine line he was cutting. “I need to concentrate on driving; ring me when Shae’s back on.”

Mormont just harrumphed. “ _Don’t get dead, Snow.”_ And let it fall.

Shae came back as he was climbing the first curving pass, and she even had good news. His lost girl did have flares, and she was ready and able to throw one. She was still moving. She was still alive.

She was somewhere, still, waiting for him on the other end. One flare. One half-hour window.

He’d make it _count._ “Tell her to throw.”

And Shae sounded bleak as the white winds blowing. _“Understood.”_

He pressed the gas, and heard the chains dig and grind. He climbed.

/~/~/~/

The guardrails were but shapes in the blizzard, where he could even see them at all. He’d had to start using the plow just to keep moving. The drop-offs were invisible, and the sun was fading, fading, fading. His eyes burned. He knew the Northern Vale backwards and forwards, and that was all that might save them now. With all the drifts piling in the roads, where one ended and another started was like trying to know from where the ocean poured. 

A realization slowly bubbled.

He could only go up from here. If she wasn’t on Oldstones, there was no turning back. His chest fucking _ached_ at it. If he’d picked wrong, if he’d gambled too much, if he’d misunderstood any detail, or the girl herself had—

He slowed for the S-curve ahead, and in the hard dart of the second turn, the snow glowed _red._

He hit the brakes. The truck skidded, and his head _rushed._ “Holy Gods.”

A thunder went pounding in his chest. He’d found her. He’d bloody fucking _found her._ He yanked on his coat, the overjacket, then cracked the heat as high as it could go. The emergency medical bag came out from under the seats to be left ready and open.

He fumbled for the radio. “I found her!”

“ _Thank the gods.”_ The radio crackled, and he couldn’t tell if it was Shae or Mormont answering.

There was no more time. He pulled his balaclava up, his goggles down, and then stepped into the storm.

The gray _howled._ The edge of the road came up fast and he kicked the drifts away. The guardrail was gone. He could see the shape of something big down in the couloir, so maybe—he turned on his headlamp. There. Distantly, so fucking distantly, the smallest bit of metal glittered.

It was as far down from him as those kindling branches had been this morning.

“Shit.” He sprinted for the climbing gear. It’d have to be rappelled; raised off the road but connected to the truck. There was no other way, he’d have to winch up. There wasn’t a backboard for the girl. There wasn’t even a second harness.

He prayed to the gods that she didn’t have a spinal, or they were _fucked._

“Come on, come on.” He started connecting, drilling, tying, anchoring. He wanted to rush but knew that was a fool’s errand. If he didn’t get the lines right, they’d never get back up. He wasn’t going to kill her twice.

_Patience, Snow._

His hands slowed. At the heel of his boot, the flare guttered and died in the slush.

The world record for getting into a climbing harness was probably set by him, right then, up in those starving winds of Oldstones. Just as quickly, he hooked himself to the ropes and flexed his gloves. The leather creaked.

He turned his back to the cliff, centered himself to the truck, and kicked off.

The rope snapped tight. He kept a firm grip and let the line spool through. The fall was sharp and gravity road him all the way down. His boots hit the drifts below and they were up to his knees. With a quick snap of his wrist, he unhooked from the line and waded in.

And there it was. He’d never, in his life, been so happy to see an overturned car.

He reached for one of the sky-facing doors, arm straining at the angle, and hammered his fist against it. “VALE FORRESTRY SERVICE, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

The wind screamed down the gully. It was hard to tell, but he thought he heard the muffled noise of a dog.

There was no other response.

He slammed his fist again, trying to get farther up the door, but this attempt was only met with silence. No voice. No girl.

“Come on, honey. I know you’re in there.”

The back of the car was partially angled down the incline, and he was in no fucking mood to skid down there and trigger a slide that’d drag him to the bottom of the couloir. He went around to the front, but windshield was opaque with frost. He could kick it in for entry, but to breech a mostly contained shelter out here…

His head rolled back. “Up it is.”

The car had nearly shattered the trees it’d landed against, but there were just enough branches left for him to scramble onto the vehicle. How he’d get down later with her would be another problem.

The storm was shrieking. He hammered the door one more time and shouted, but all that seemed to get was a single bark. He upgraded his mental status of the dog to _fully alive_ and refused to reassess for the girl.

He inched sideways for the passenger door handle. The door didn’t budge when he pulled, but the handle swung. No lock.

“Fuck off.” He kicked the door, once, twice. Ice shattered. It shattered again. He wrenched the door and nearly toppled himself off the car. It was open, and he looked down.

His heart _spasmed_. A golden pair of eyes stared back at him above a slathering set of teeth. It wasn’t a wolf; it wasn’t a fucking _wolf._

The not-wolf rumbled and shrieked at him. But gods, there. _There._ Around the beast, all curled up and so very small—

There was a lock of red hair. A pale cheek. A slim hand nestled in a ruff of fur.

His breath left him. “ _Sansa.”_

And the dog snarled.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” He began lowering himself down. In response, the dog clamored over the girl. It hobbled badly, and Jon saw the splint on its front leg. He’d thought the dog had been hurt in the crash, but—that didn’t matter.

The dog threw itself fully on top of the girl and snapped its jaws.

“Shhhhhhhhhh.” He raised his goggles and pulled down his mask; let the dog get a good look at his face and not some monster climbing in from the storm.

The dog’s ears pinned back. The girl didn’t stir.

Jon let his voice go soft and low. “You’re alright. You’re a good girl, you’re keeping her safe. I’m here to help.”

The dog kept its ears pinned, but this time, it whimpered. It still didn’t move off the girl.

A conversation with Shae finally registered back to him. “You’re alright, Lady, that’s a good girl. The best girl. You’re doing so good.”

A gray pair of ears slowly swung off her skull. Another long whimper followed. Snow drifted past him and down onto the pair of them.

“Shit.” He swiftly pulled the door shut behind him. When it looked like the dog wasn’t going to take a hunk out of him, he got all the way to the ground and awkwardly straddled them. The dog watched his every move with unblinking eyes, and he’d never been quite so thankful to be wearing Kevlar-lined pants.

“Sansa.” He almost reached for her, then saw the glove on his hand. He ripped it off. The air was biting when he touched her face. “Sansa, sweetheart, can you hear me?”

Her cheek was cold. Breath washed against his wrist.

He exhaled a single prayer. “Alright, then.”

She was unconscious and barely shivering. It was a very, very bad sign. He pulled off his other glove and started checking her over; breaks, wounds, anything at all. She seemed intact, but her face was bruised from what he guessed was the airbag. Lady’s lips curled back off her teeth, but she made no move when he peeled up the girl’s coat and shirt for a quick look. There were bruises all the way from her hips to her shoulders. Seatbelt contusion.

Ribs?

His fingers were already numbing, but he prodded at her ribcage through her shirt. Nothing seemed to be free-floating that shouldn’t be. But when he swung the light of his headlamp, it lit a glitter of frost creeping along the bottom of the car. It was spilling from the windows, and her clothes were damp. “Fuck me.”

She was curled in on herself. When he started rolling her out of it, her head shifted. For the first time, Jon was looking his lost girl directly in the face.

For that one shivering, suspended moment, it was like he’d had the life battered out of him. His heart had to restart. His brain flatlined, then resuscitated. Gods. He took one shaky breath and then locked everything that wasn’t useful down into a pit.

He pulled up his mask and down his goggles. “Lady, I need you to let me pick your mama up, okay?”

The dog scrunched down on the door away from him, and that told him something awful he couldn’t focus on right now.

He kept up the soft murmur as he took Sansa up into his arms. She was light, so, so light.

She was so godsdamn _cold._

No harness, no backboard, but he did have extra lengths of cord. He heaved her up onto his shoulders and into a fireman’s carry. With a quick bit of knotwork, he secured her right arm to her right leg, both meeting across his torso and just above his hip. He prayed to the gods he could keep her steady, and then started climbing. He swung the door.

Lady leapt in alarm, wailing and yelping and scrabbling along the floor.

He couldn’t stop. They emerged back into the storm, and Lady’s horrific clamor tore into the wind. He slammed the car door shut, secured Sansa as best as he could, and jumped.

His knees shocked from the impact, and he staggered and then nearly face-planted them both into the snow. “Sorry, sorry.”

She didn’t stir.

He hoofed it back to the line, grabbed it before the wind could whip it any further, and secured himself before tying in the knots to hold them. He grabbed upwards for Sansa, got a hand over her back and fisted her jacket. “Hold on.” And he hit the remote for the winch.

Slowly, they lifted off the ground. He grabbed for where her arm and leg were tied across him and held on there, too.

They ascended with excruciating slowness. The wind buffeted them every inch of the way, and he spent most of the ascent constantly bouncing them away from the cliff with his legs.

She wasn’t moving, and adrenaline was starting to carve the world into razor edges. This was taking too much time. Fuck. Fuckity fuck, fuck, _fuck._

They cleared the lip. Jon swung them to the road and yanked off the line. The path he’d cut to the rail was already half-drifted in, but he charged through it and straight to the truck. With an edifying bit of dexterity, he slung the girl down from his shoulders, back into his arms, and then climbed into the cabin with her.

The storm was reduced to a distant roar behind him. He pulled off his gloves.

“We need to get you dry, alright?” There was no response, and he let his mind drift away from the immediacy of what he was doing. He stripped off her coat, her sweater, her shirt. He rucked her leggings down her thighs and then tossed them into the wheel well.

He pressed the back of his hand below her navel and had to admit, it was the first time in his life he’d been happy to find a girl’s panties dry.

The same check went to her bra, but that was dry, too. He wrapped in her one blanket, two, then frantically started tearing off his own layers until he was down to a t-shirt and his thermal underwear. Carefully, he opened the blankets just enough to straddle her across his lap. She molded into his chest. He wrapped a bare arm around her back, a slide of cold skin to warm, and started rubbing. Gently, he cupped her head and pressed her face into his neck. “Come on, come on. Warm up. There’s a love.”

Gods, she was so solid in his arms, there and alive and right there and _alive._ Some part of him couldn’t believe it.

Some other part of him felt half-mad clutching onto her. “I’ve got you, Sansa. You’re safe.”

Breath pulsed against his neck, and then a wet slur of words. A shiver rippled across his scalp and he squeezed his eyes shut not to _weep_ for it. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it.”

She slurred something else, not so much words as sounds. She shifted just a little and then sagged deeper into his chest.

For the next ten minutes he held onto her tightly, rubbing at her back and sides and trying to pour heat into her. She didn’t wake.

He tried not to think of the choice to come. Sansa was in a bad way, and his window of getting back to Base was just about shut. There was a triage to these things. Choices, lives, limits. If he got on the radio right now, Mormont would tell him to bundle her up and go.

Mormont wouldn’t even tell him to leave the dog, he’d just assume that Jon knew the score. Knew the rules. Knew what a human life was worth compared to an animal.

It lodged like a burr in his throat. His mind went to Ghost; it couldn’t go anywhere else. His search and rescue dog was only three years old, and technically not even his property, and yet that animal was the only thing in this life that loved him. Pure. True. Totally. And Jon thought of waking somewhere and finding out someone had left Ghost to die alone, just to save his own sorry ass.

Ghost wouldn’t know any better, would just know that he’d been left behind. Anxious; not understanding why no one was coming back, that _Jon_ wasn’t coming back. To lay there freezing and starving and so fucking scared—

 _“Snow.”_ The radio squawked. “ _Snow, do you read me?”_

Lady'd had a blanket on her, carefully bowed around her neck like a little cape. There’d been ribbons on her collar.

The truck shook with the wind, empty and howling, and his rage spilled into it. “No.”

_“Ranger Snow, do you read?”_

He didn’t.

There was one last trade for time he could make.

He gathered Sansa off him and re-wrapped her, then reached into the medical bag and broke open the hot packs. One went under each armpit, the third to the torso, and the fourth left him praying for deliverance as he carefully slipped her legs open and pushed it against her groin.

Next came what was affectionately known in the Service as the _burrito blanket._ He rolled her into its crinkly confines, then into a quilt, then under even the dog blankets on the back bench. At the end, all he could see was long coil of red hair trailing against the backseat.

He redressed, touched her hair once, and then flung himself back into the squall.

/~/~/~/

The second time was faster, if only because he knew where he was going. Back on the rope, the rappel down, fighting through the snow now up to his thighs. Up the branches, up on the car, back down into it.

He went for the dog.

Lady nipped at him, but it glanced off his sleeve. He slowed instantly and started petting at her. If he’d had the day she just did, he’d be pretty damn upset too at some storm-beast trying to manhandle him. “I’m sorry, I know you’re scared. You’ve been so good.”

She refused to look at him. He kept petting her. “Don’t you want to go back to Sansa, little Lady?”

Her ears swiveled. Her gaze darted to him once, and then away.

“Come on, Sansa’s up there, she’s waiting for you. Let me carry you, huh?”

Another twitch of the ears. Slowly, Lady put her chin on his knee. She still refused to look at him

He sighed. “Good enough.” And then lifted her carefully onto his shoulders.

The broken leg jostled once; Lady yelped but thankfully didn’t try to bite his face off. He shushed her as gently as he could while he tied her one good leg to her back legs. They made a loop on his chest that would hopefully hold her onto him.

Somehow, the dog was even _heavier_ than Sansa had been. His shoulders bowed but didn’t buckle. At the last second, he saw the purse on the floor. With a shrug, he picked it up and strapped it to his belt, and then he was up and back into the storm.

Lady did not like the ascent. Lady did not like him bouncing them away from the cliff. Lady did not like one single thing, until he lifted her into the back of the truck where she could scramble over Sansa and plant her doggy body protectively around her head.

He left every piece of climbing gear behind and was already writing the loss report to Mormont in his head. Lady’s life for a bit of equipment seemed an even trade.

Very gingerly, Jon reached into the blankets with a bare hand. Sansa’s skin was lukewarm, her pulse steady but slow.

She wasn’t mumbling any longer.

He grabbed the radio. “Code 3, Code 3. Stabilized. Heading back to Base with passengers. All speed.”

And their hour was up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter one day early, as a treat.
> 
> In which Jon is the big damn hero,  
> Lady is like (ง'̀-'́)ง at everyone not named mum, and Sansa has bought enough time for them to be extricated (but hypothermia-sleeps through Jon's sexy rescue competence, alas).
> 
> But fear not, I will have Jon and Sansa actually meet next chapter. For realsies.
> 
> Now, some notes for this chapter: all sorts of Kevlar-lined gear exists to wear when using a chainsaw. Those saws are ruthless motherufckers, and they will just as happily juke off a branch and into your shoulder to take off your arm. Hence Jon's heavy duty gear to catch their vicious little teeth, if needed. Respect the chainsaw. Fear it.
> 
> I imagine modern Westeros as structured somewhat between the US and EU. Official title here is the Federated Free Kingdoms of Westeros. There is a federal government, but it's slightly weaker than that in the US--the Kingdoms here have a lot of autonomy, but they're not as loosely grouped as the EU. Arryn Troopers are based on US State Troopers (state police). They use military rankings for titles which is why Corbray is a 'Colonel', but they aren't actually associated with the military in any way shape or form.
> 
> Next chapter will take longer to post as I need to make sure not to overrun my cushion. Should be longer than a week to see it, but no longer than two weeks. Though if I have an explosive bit of productivity in the meantime, you guys will see something sooner. But note, I usually only have time/energy to write on weekends, and I still have another fic to wrap up which needs its own space.
> 
> I hope everyone is doing well and staying healthy. Take care of yourselves.


	3. Windward

The headlights swung over the face of the cabin like a searchlight, and in that moment, Jon believed in every god. His shoulders unclenched. Anxiety stopped its hard scrabble up his throat. He shifted the truck into park and tried to remember how to breathe.

They’d made it. Come a mountain pass, two near strandings, and a few metric tons of snow—

Lady snuffled miserably.

He turned, scuffed a quick hand over the dog’s ears, then reached for the pile of blankets she was curled around. “Sansa?”

There was no response. He pulled off a glove and felt the skin of her cheek again. Tepid. They weren’t done yet. “Hold on.”

He left the engine running and stepped into a white-out. The winds howled. Kicked. There was no telling if the snow was being flung up from the ground or down from the sky, and visibility had finally disintegrated. That had nearly halted them more than a dozen times on the way up. The worst had truly set in, but he’d kept pushing on like a wolf with a bone to gnaw. Sansa was in a bad way, and no matter how much the thought had needled him about hunkering down for the night, and climbing into the backseat and into the blankets with her—

Sansa needed more.

The headlights spilled. Flakes glowed. It was like standing in a snow globe; nothing but dark and ice and the suffocating collapse.

Well, almost. In the front window and lit by the headlights, Ghost’s white face was smushed against the glass.

The dog woofed. Jon unlocked the cabin door and stumbled inside. A switch clacked under his glove, and then Ghost was bounding to him. It killed him to say it. “Sit!”

Ghost skidded and planted his hindquarters to the floor.

There wasn’t _time_. “Stay.” And he hurried past the dog to the main fireplace. Wood was already stacked inside. None of this was going to be a slow affair, so he grabbed a bottle of lighter fluid and sprayed it into the grate. He tossed a match.

Fire erupted with a loud _thwoomp,_ but Jon didn’t stay to watch. He ran to the infirmary, got another dozen hot packs and the electric blanket, then sprinted back just to toss everything to the floor so he could drag the nearest couch towards the fire. He plugged in the electric blanket, set it to high, and then flung it to the cushions. He turned again.

Less than a minute, and he was back into the storm.

The mountains screamed. The cold was a knife to the teeth. He shouldered the backdoor of the truck open and held it against the wind. Lady’s tail thumped once, but when he reached for Sansa, the dog rumbled at him.

“Mixed signals, much?” Lady kept rumbling, and he swiftly rubbed a hand down her side. “Hey, hey, just a little more, alright?”

Lady settled mulishly, and he knew it: just a little more. His hands slipped under the blanket pile and pulled Sansa into his arms. Before the dog could decide otherwise, he hip-checked the door shut and hauled his lost girl into the cabin.

Just a little more. Just a little longer. The top few layers including the burrito blanket came off. He wrapped her in the electric blanket on the couch, put the quilt back on top, then slipped another half-dozen hot packs into her cocoon. The feel of her bare skin branded itself to his palms.

Somewhere behind him, Ghost wiggled in place, eager to approach.

He’d have to do something about that before bringing Lady in, but—

The anxiety kept pressing. Pressing. Crumbling. Jon sagged into a crouch. The fire was warm on his back, and his shoulders throbbed. There was a tension behind his eyes—blood, pain; the long and grinding erosion left by fear.

She was alive. He’d gotten her back _alive._ Sansa breathed quietly, soft and hopefully warm, and so completely unknowing of him.

The adrenaline crash nearly dropped him, and he breathed sharp. “ _Fuck_.”

The fire crackled. He watched the shadows dance.

There was a slide behind him; nails clicking. Ghost was dragging his hindquarters across the floor just enough to start nosing at his elbow. Jon breathed out shakily and sat flat to the floor. He patted his lap. “Come on.”

Ghost bumped his head to Jon’s side, his shoulder, and then settled across his legs. Jon dragged his fingers through the dog’s fur. “Ghost, this is Sansa, you be gentle with her, okay?”

Ghost panted cheerfully, head swinging from Sansa, to Jon, and then back to her. The dog’s ears perked.

“Yeah, you got it.”

Everything in him kept dragging, but he couldn’t stop yet. He groaned, and Ghost bounced off his lap so he could rise. “Come on, Ghost. Bedroom.”

Ghost’s tail dropped.

“I know.” Jon sighed. “Bedroom. Go.”

Ghost watched him a moment longer as if hoping he’d change his mind. When he didn’t, the dog huffed and then slunk towards the stairs. Jon followed him up and waited until Ghost had clamored into the sleigh bed before pulling the door shut.

Lady was behaving erratically, and he didn’t want to see how adding another dog to the mix would push her. Maybe tomorrow, maybe…

Just a little more.

He went back into the storm. By the time he got to the truck, drove it into the detached garage, and killed the engine, Lady was half-frantic. It took five minutes to calm her enough, that he felt it safe for both of them to open the rear door. She leapt down, and he barely managed to catch her before she landed on her bad leg.

The dog just shot him a look and a little huff, then determinedly hobbled through the snow to the cabin door. She shot him another look while he was busy pulling the garage shut. _Bossy little thing._

He sighed and followed behind her to crack the cabin door. Without pause, Lady shouldered in and hurried to the fireplace. The dog pressed her face to Sansa’s, whimpered, then desperately started trying to scramble onto the couch.

She yelped, fell, and then tried again.

“Careful, Lady—”

She refused to listen, and it hit somewhere weak inside him. Using his legs, he managed to bully her to the other end of the couch, then got his hands under her backside to help her up. Lady staggered, gave a victorious little toss of her head, then flopped onto Sansa’s legs.

Without any kind of prompting, Lady’s head swiveled towards him. Curious, he opened a palm to her. Gently, she licked his palm once, and then settled her head onto Sansa’s knees to watch her.

Huh. “Well alright, then.”

/~/~/~/

He knew he had to change; between the climbing and hauling Sansa and Lady around, he’d sweated through his thermals.

He stood for a long moment—tried not to think too hard about anything. The nauseous churn came, faint but so familiar.

He stripped in the bathroom. Pants, sweatshirt, shirt, thermals, boxers. He didn’t look in the mirror, didn’t look down— kept his head at an upwards and rigid angle. He showered next, soaped up; washcloth only and didn’t drag skin to skin. No reason to. His gaze stayed somewhere up near the ceiling.

His gut didn’t unclench until he was out of the shower and had a shirt back on. It wasn’t anything. It was fine.

It was _fine._

It’d been fine for years.

/~/~/~/

Even with his strength flagging, Jon hauled himself to the radio room. It was like talking through a mouthful of sludge, but he managed. “Made it to North Base. Can’t tell if the girl is unconscious or asleep, but she’s stable. No frostbite. Nothing broken.”

_“It’s about time, Snow. Thought you died on the way up.”_

They nearly had. “Naw, we’re fine.” Just thoroughly bruised, and he rubbed at his shoulder.

_“Good. Get some shut-eye and report in on the girl’s status in the morning. If she’s still unconscious by then, we’ll need to talk about an airlift.”_ And there came a pause. _“Snow, if the federated channels try to give you a ring—”_

Mormont jagged off. For a moment, Jon thought the line had dropped. “Sir?”

_“Don’t answer. They know you found her, and they know where you did. Accusations haven’t been leveled yet, but battle lines are this close to being drawn. The way you laid it on the federated channel…godsdamn, Snow. There’s going to be an investigation, and Corbray and all of his lackies know it.”_

That’s what he’d hoped. “I don’t see the problem.”

_“Button that shit up. Weather Service is saying this storm will be worst case scenario. It’ll be three feet by dawn, and another foot-half tomorrow. After that, the winds are turning gale force. We need all agencies to be working happily together on this, so keep your mouth shut for a few more days, got it?”_

“Got it.” But she’d nearly died, and it locked a snarl in his chest. “But later—”

_“You’ll get your day, Snow. But you know the kind of shit that comes with.”_

He knew, and yet it struck him broadside. His gut burned. “Understood.” Because fuck it, he _knew._

The line fragmented. Jon reached over and flipped the radio to standby. He put his face into his palms; those palms still branded by her skin. He couldn’t regret it, but gods, he was _tired_ of this shit. Maneuvering. Backstabbing. Whatever the hells the truth would bring.

“Never an easy day, Snow.” But no one answered. He’d been up alone in North Base for too long, talking to himself like this.

He went to the bunkroom and dragged one of the bare mattresses onto his aching shoulders. It was quick work to haul it downstairs and throw it between the couch and the fireplace. He saw Lady’s eyes slit open, and then closed. He killed the lights, and then it was only the firelight spilling over Sansa’s skin. It burnished her. Gold. Bronze. Red.

He checked her one last time. Re-settled the hot packs; made sure she wasn’t burning up or sweating out. She didn’t stir, and he slid one hand under her face and carefully pulled her hair out from under her cheek. It slipped like silk through his fingers.

It scoured something raw inside him _._

But there was nothing to be done. Jon fell onto the mattress, pulled a blanket over, and with the heat of the fire on his back, he let the crash come.

/~/~/~/

It was the absence of cold that woke her.

For a few minutes she stared into the muted glow of a fire, her brain slow and heart slower, with not the faintest idea of where she was. Everything was sluggish. Her ribs were aching, and her legs were numb. Her hip was nothing but a dull throb where it was pushed into…whatever she was on.

Sansa blinked once. Twice. Her lashes smeared fire across the walls.

Maybe she was dreaming.

She remembered shivering and climbing out of her damp jeans. Remembered being cold and curling around Lady, wrapping in a blanket and trying to get warm. Shifting, shifting again. Her knees and her chest and her hands all needling, and the cold…

There was a shape on the floor. A large one. It was turned towards her and made faceless in the shadow of the fire. All she could see were whorls of dark hair cast about like a spatter of ink.

A body, then. Broad, breathing, and dark.

Sweat puddled across her back. There was nothing to hold onto, and she wiggled feebly. Neither her arms nor legs moved. She should have been worried, but she was dreaming. The slippery kind; slow and listless and the body left unhinged.

She drifted.

There was a soft sound. A breath. The body stirred, and then so too did a voice: “Fuck.” It sounded like a drag of gravel. “Fuckit, what—”

The faceless thing turned just a little, and it sliced half into the light. Gods. Gods _above._

His dark eye looked gold in the fire. “Sansa—Sansa? Hey, honey, don’t—”

Her lashes fell shut again. A rough palm cradled her jaw. “C’mon. Open your eyes again, I saw you.”

It felt like being dragged through sand. Her eyes opened, and he was still there. The man. The shadow. He looked like a Lychester painting, a broad stroke done in oils—all swamped in firelight and unearthly in that glow.

“There you are.” And then he smiled, crinkling around the eyes and so sharp in the teeth that her heart _lurched._

That mouth. Gods _._ That could only be a thing dreamed up in a death throe.

Her tongue struggled. “Where are…?”

He kept his grip. “You’re in a VFS Base on the upper side of the Northern Vale. Do you remember what happened?”

“I was—” But her throat scraped dry and set off a coughing fit. Her chest throbbed like it’d been kicked in. She curled in on herself to try and escape the blow.

“Sorry, sorry—” More gravel again, and she didn’t know how it could be this gentle. “Breathe slowly, c’mon. I’ve got some water for you. You’re alright.” And his free hand skated over the crown of her head.

The minutes slipped. When she finally managed to straighten herself out, he got a hand under her head and another on her shoulder and lifted her. The hand on her shoulder retreated in a smear of sweat; the hand cupping her neck remained.

The water, when it came, pooled sweet on her tongue.

“There you go.” He murmured, and she took another long swallow.

The cup went away. And then, quite wretchedly, so did he. “I’m going to get some towels, alright? We need to get that sweat off you.”

She could see him fully in the fire now, and it twisted something deep inside her. She wondered if he was waiting for an answer, but the effort of that seemed…

“—you’ve got company while I’m gone, okay? Just give me a minute.” And then he got up and left, which seemed the worst blow yet.

This was, Sansa decided feverishly, the most unfair dream she’d ever had. She didn’t even get to _look._

That thought barely had its moment of purchase, when a wet nose smushed to her cheek. There was a whimper, and then a heavy swipe of tongue. She cringed away. “Laaaaaady. Lady’no—no.”

Lady licked her again, and then shoved their faces together. It toppled them both. Sansa huffed a sound; couldn’t tell if it was pain or laughter. “Spoiled baby.” She accused. Lady’s happy little huff in return seemed an agreement.

She tried to move her arms again but still couldn’t loose them. This time, it dawned on her that it was the blankets she was wrapped in that were straightjacketing her. Gods. If she wasn’t dreaming, if the snow and the shattered glass and that awful wailing yelp had happened—

Her chest hitched again. “Oh.” And this time when she wiggled, she wiggled furiously. The splint was still on Lady’s leg. Sansa’s chest _burned._

The letter had happened. The car had crashed. She’d crashed them, she’d—

“For fuck’s sake, Lady.” And the man was back again. Incredibly, with naught but an arm, he hauled the dog’s bulk right off her and got her upright. “You okay?”

That otherworldly face was far too close for a girl to think straight. She blinked stupidly. “My arms.”

“Got it.” And he unwound quilts and blankets, then reached in to pull her entire upper body out of the straitjacket. Without fanfare, he started rubbing her down with the towel. It was economical. Efficient; took the sweat off her skin before the cold could start her shaking again.

It felt lovely, and it nearly lulled her. He pulled her forward, one hot palm to her shoulder, and then worked at her back. That was lovely too, his hands right on her, until she realized it was skin to skin.

She wasn’t wearing a shirt. Her thighs were _bare_.

He pulled the towel from her back. Half of him was in the shadow again; expression so calmly detached. “Are you alright for me to touch your legs?”

Without even thinking she nodded, half-confused and half-mortified and absolutely wanting to keep his hands _on_ her _._ Anchored. Completely warm. _Blistering._ Maybe she was dreaming after all, maybe...

He knelt down, and her brain flung itself from the tracks. He paused. “Sorry, I left your clothes in the truck. They were wet—they’re probably a pile of ice by now. I’ll get ‘em tomorrow and dry them by the fire. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She answered faintly. “I didn’t—I don’t know what happened. What happened? Who are you?”

At that moment he’d just palmed her calf, the blood between her thighs _burning_ at it, when he froze solid. “Shit, I’m sorry. My name’s Snow—Jon. It’s Jon Snow.”

She tested it on her tongue. Dragged it. “ _Jon_.”

His throat worked. He was kneeling before her, utterly motionless, staring up into her face as if he’d _found_ something. “Yeah—fuck. It’s Ranger Jon Snow, Vale Forestry Service.” He faltered. “I found your car. In the couloir…you and Lady.”

With that memory, the cold crawled back in. “By the gods.”

He squeezed her leg. “You’re okay. I got the both of you out of there, alright?”

But her hands still shook. “I don’t remember that.”

“You wouldn’t.” And his jaw clenched. “You were in the mid-stages of hypothermia when I got there. It’s a bloody miracle I found you when I did, otherwise—shit. That doesn’t matter. You and Lady are safe up here, I promise.”

She remembered how deep that gully had been. How sheer; the death sentence it had felt like. “You protected us.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat roughly. “I guess I did.”

She still felt half in the dream that wasn’t. Otherwise, she knew, she never would have reached out.

Never would have touched his face. “Thank you.”

“You’re—” His eyes met hers, and he didn’t shy from her fingertips. Then, abruptly, his gaze jumped down her legs. He followed that path with a towel. “You’re welcome. Do you need water, food, anything?”

It felt like something had shifted, or maybe been lost. Or perhaps she was still dreaming too deeply.

Her hand slipped away.

She stared down at the dark curls of his hair; at the firelight glinting off it. The way it crowned him. “Water.” She wanted to touch him. Run her fingers through. Knot her fingers into his hair, and— “This greedy baby here probably wants food, though.” And she patted Lady’s flank with both hands lest she do something regrettable with them first. Like try to keep him between her thighs, or push him down to the floor, or—

She must have hit her head in the crash. Sansa frowned. Actually...she had. The airbag. Her head had definitely taken a blow, and nothing was quite connecting right. This poor Forest Ranger didn’t need some addled woman he’d gone through the trouble of saving to, to— _accost_ him.

He could have handed her the towel. She should have asked for him to hand her the towel.

She didn’t.

He finished rubbing her down, and then he was off his knees and offering her a bit of cloth. “Here.”

She accepted and then stared at it. Her brain refused to process any further.

“It’s a shirt—one of mine, which—doesn’t matter at all. In case you want to take off your…” He made a swirling gesture in the general vicinity of her chest. “That.” And he kept staring at her. She stared back. “Your bra.” He finished haltingly, and she flushed all the way to the roots of her hair.

“Right—right!” Her pulse jackrabbited. “If you could turn around, Ranger Snow, I’d appreciate it.”

In the shadow his eyes were black. Then, seemingly bewildered, he blinked the dark away. “Right—yeah. A’course.” And spun around.

Furtively, even though he had obviously already seen her bra, she unclasped the garment and stuffed it into the blankets, then pulled the shirt on. Her ribs felt better, at least. That was something. And the shirt was so, so soft, and smelled like evergreen. She tried not to cuddle it.

“I’m…” She picked her words. “Decent.” For a certain definition of the word for a woman not wearing pants.

“Right.” He repeated, then shifted towards her, away, and then towards her again. He pulled the outer blankets back around her shoulders, before tossing the sweat-soaked one away. “I’ll get you some water and Lady some food.” And then gave her a lopsided grin that was quite frankly _devastating_. “Who knows, maybe she’ll even start to like me.”

Sansa gasped and spun. “ _Lady.”_

Lady’s ears dropped.

“What did you _do?”_

Her ears went completely flat, and the dog glowered. Sansa glowered right back. “You were supposed to be _good.”_ And it made her pulse uneven. Lady hadn’t, she hadn’t tried to—it was bad enough that she’d already—Sansa shoved the thought away. “Lady didn’t hurt you, did she?”

Jon’s brows jumped. “No. She was just a bit upset, is all. I didn’t take it personal.”

She tried to swallow the lump building. “I’m sorry. It’s been—it’s been a bad month, if she tried to—”

“Nothing happened.” He answered firmly, and then cupped her shoulders and clasped tight. “She was a good girl, okay? Whatever you’re worried about, it didn’t happen.”

One part of her shivered oddly. Another part of her tried to quell the panic. “Okay.” But she turned one last sharp glance at her dog. “You be good for Jon, understand? As good as you are for me.”

Lady huffed and gave one baleful glare in the Ranger’s direction.

Sansa gasped again, ready to scold, but Jon—Jon just met the glare and patted Lady softly. In response, the dog sent her a resigned look that made it clear she was only enduring all of this on Sansa’s behalf.

She bit off a groan. “She’ll warm up to you,” Sansa promised darkly. “You’ll see.”

And that awful, crooked grin of his returned. “I’m sure I will. Hang tight, I’ll be back in a bit.” And true to promise, he was.

Lady ate from a bowl on the couch, and Sansa got another two glasses of water to carefully drink down. Whatever energy she’d had in waking, as little as it had been, was fading fast. Her eyelids were already drooping as she took the last swallow.

He took the glass from her. “Okay?”

She grumbled sleepily. “Okay.”

“C’mon, lay down, you could use some more rest.”

“ _You_ lay down.” She muttered, and he barked a laugh that had her stomach swooping.

“If that’s what you want.” And he kept grinning. “I’ll be right behind you, ain’t nothing to do until the storm passes, anyways.”

She could. He would. But all she wanted to do was keep her eyes open. Keep her eyes on him; on this impossibility of a man.

But by the gods, was she tired. “I suppose.” And she slipped down.

He gathered the quilt up from where it was bunched at her feet and pulled it across her. “You had a long day.”

She forced her lids up again. “Not as long as yours.”

“It’s my job, Sansa, don’t worry about it.”

She was worrying a little, but that thought was fading into exhaustion along with everything else. The dark was encroaching. The winds were moaning and gnashing, and the shadows were long.

“Sansa?” He asked, and her eyes opened one last time.

He looked strange in the fire, inky and reddish and haloed in light. His voice rolled over her like fog. “I’ll protect you up here, too.” And his eyes met hers. “I promise.”

It filled something inside her. Some aching place. An unnamed thing that had given up on faith for so long. She’d been disappointed so many times before, and yet here she was.

Believing.

It couldn’t be forever. But she knew that here with him, at least for these dark hours, she was safe to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon nests like a mofo, Lady is back with her mum despite this Storm Beast who keeps trying to separate them, and Sansa is deliriously beset by confusion and lust (and Jon Snow's stupid, gorgeous mouth. Save her).
> 
> Now while Sansa has her own troubles in this universe, Jon's had his share too. I'm not trying to be particularly sneaky about anything, so I'll just say if anyone is worried about what Jon's deal was with showering (spoiler a bit), it is entirely borrowed from one of his canon traumas. A good chunk of you should be able to guess what that is without me saying more. (if anyone's super worried and confused and needs to know, ask me in the comments. TBH, if any of you have trigger worries or need assurances on anything in this story, just ask me and I'll tell you what up. I know some of us just don't like to be surprised on certain things and that's cool.)
> 
> Now, next chapter--Sansa gets to meet Jon a second time without being delirious from hypothermia, Jonsa get to know each other a little better, and two certain doggos finally meet snout to snout. 
> 
> Stay tuned, next update in 1-2 weeks!


	4. Sun Crust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two notes going into this: in this universe, The Wall is a mountain range instead of an ice wall. I'm picturing the Cascades myself. But honestly, insert your mountain range of choice.
> 
> Second, the Night's Watch is a Forestry Service.

She woke again to a gray room, the fire high and the storm low. Snow was falling still, but the winds had gentled some. Her entire body ached from the bone. The world churned; slurried and surreal for a long moment until she remembered where she was.

Sansa stared up fuzzily into the ceiling, then decided: “Fuck.”

She hadn’t dreamed up last night, then. She had most definitely and in this exact order: totaled her car, gotten hauled out of a gully, lusted after her rescuer, patted at his face with all the grace of a drunkard, and then promptly passed out in front of him while he tucked her in like a child.

It was, in a word, _mortifying_.

She kept staring upwards. Maybe, if she laid very still, death would come for her.

She waited. She waited longer. At her feet, Lady snuffled and tried to lick her knee through the blankets.

Sansa grumbled. “No.”

Lady licked her knee again.

“You can’t make me.”

Somewhere farther in the—base, house? wherever they were—there was a sizzling noise. It had hint of grease to it; the promise of something warm and _good_ if she just got up. Unless there was a third person here, Jon was in the kitchen.

She flushed hard. Jon. _Jon._ Dark hair, dark beard, callused hands and gruff voice and gentle touches, and—

She’d thought Joffrey had ruined this for her, but it seemed not. Jon Snow had rescued her. He’d rescued _Lady_. And more alarmingly: he was the kind of drop-dead gorgeous that could inspire masterpieces fit for gallery walls. Gods, could a man really be that beautiful?

Maybe last night had just been the firelight and her possible concussion helping him along. Maybe this _Jon Snow_ sort was actually normal-looking in daylight hours.

But even so, she remembered his promise. His hand on her ankle. The _mouth_ on him.

And she remembered his eyes most of all. Iron. Flint. Smoke before flame. She’d thought that last night, just for a minute—there’d been something in the way he’d looked at her. Something _intent._ Maybe even…?

Lady licked her knee a third time. “Ugh _. Fine.”_

Only one way to find out.

She levered upright. Her back and joints all strained at it, and she muffled an unladylike grunt. Gods. She’d been crawling around in her downed car yesterday as easy as could be, but today she felt like—

She didn’t want to think about it.

There was a little end table near the couch that hadn’t been there the night before. On it sat a navy blue sweater, a pair of sweatpants, a toothbrush and paste, one glass of water, and a bottle of painkillers. It wasn’t Oxy in the bottle, but it sure wasn’t aspirin, either. She gratefully popped two pills, washed them down, then wiggled into the sweatpants. She then pulled the sweater over the shirt he’d already gifted her. The folds of it smelled like evergreen, too.

Green. Green—like the shattering of the pines and the sap that had spattered from them raw. Glass. Splinters. The heat bleeding, bleeding—

She clutched her arms around herself and took a shuddering breath. Somewhere a room away, there were footsteps. Grease sizzling. Lady exhaling quietly beside her.

She breathed the evergreen. She was safe. _Safe._

Jon had promised her.

Her heart rate drifted back in. She rubbed her arms, stood, and then helped Lady jump down even though it wrenched viciously at her chest. She picked up the toiletries. “Bathroom?”

In answer, Lady shook her entire body out.

“You’re no help at all.”

The dog whimpered. Loudly. The house wasn’t that big, and Sansa glanced about furtively. “Shush!” She wasn’t ready for—she wasn’t ready.

The grease kept sizzling. No footsteps sounded.

The second door she tried led into what could only be called a closet of a bathroom. No shower, no mirror—just a naked lightbulb, a sink crammed under an awkward overhand, and a toilet. It was so small, Lady had to wait outside while she brushed her teeth and made use of the facilities.

A sliver of soap let her wash her face, and she was feeling halfway to human when the heels of her hands caught at her hair. Sansa winced. It was matted. _Ugly_ matted; sweat-curled and awkwardly mussed and not combed in…she honestly didn’t want to make that calculation. She wetted her hands and tried to smooth the worst of the snarls out. Miraculously, she still had a hairband on one of her wrists. She braided her hair back as evenly as she could and then used the band to tie it off.

There. Done. No other reason to tarry; she was as ready as she was ever going to be.

“You’re okay.” She told herself. She had to be.

When she stepped out, Lady greeted her with an eager headbutt to the stomach that shocked a yelp out of her. Sansa glared. “You’re lucky I like you so much.”

Lady just panted back, guileless and adoring.

Together, they followed the smell of grease and found Jon standing in a cramped kitchen. There was a small wooden table, scuffed. Bundles of herbs and salted meats hanging from the rafters. Maps on the walls, frost on the windows, wood paneling worn smooth by the years. Cast iron sink. Tools and oilcloths on one counter, a cutting board with meat on another. An old wood-fired stove, the grate open and fire burning merrily. A pot of steaming coffee was perched on its edge.

But it was at the newer, propane stove that Jon was standing. His back was to her and his shoulders were so broad in the morning light. Absently, he reached back—fingers curled and rubbing where his neck met his shoulder. Muscle rippled smoothly, and it made her breath catch.

He was wearing his own sweater, black and flecked with dog fur, and a pair of snowpants rolled down to his hips with work boots still on. And he was tending to something on the stove that smelled _divine._

The curls at the back of his neck were damp, plastered to the skin. She wanted to press her mouth there.

Oh, godsdamn. She was being absurd. She _knew_ she was being absurd. She wasn’t ready for this, but who could be? No plan, no idea of what she wanted, or was even trying to achieve. It was utter madness. If she had any two bits of common sense left to rub together, she’d turn around right now to go lay on the couch until she regrew her brain cells.

It was the sensible thing to do. It was the _only_ thing to do.

Lady’s nails clicked onto the kitchen tile, and Jon’s head jerked up. Turned.

Their eyes met like a thunderbolt.

 _Oh, fuck_. Jon Snow was—outrageously—

“Sansa, hey.”

—just as gorgeous as her fevered brain remembered. “Jon. Hi.” By the gods, his cheekbones, his smile, his— “Good morning.” How could this sort of thing be _allowed?_

His gaze flicked across her, head to heels, and then settled warmly on her face. “Morning. You hungry yet?”

She nearly swallowed her tongue. “Starving. Can I…?”

“Ah, shit. Yeah. Just—" And he leapt across the kitchen and shoveled what looked like a pile of logbooks off a chair. He dragged it out for her, and she could have combusted at the gesture.

She managed to stave off immolation by the skin of her teeth. “Thank you.” And sat. “Anything I can do to help?”

He’d gone back to the stove, but his face had never turned from her. “Naw, we’re good. It’s full-service breakfast here at North Base. Can’t disappoint the guests.”

“I’ll leave a stunning Yelp review, then.” She agreed. “Rescues _and_ breakfast from the finest in the Service.”

Something went ruddy in his cheeks. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

She looked down at Lady who’d cheerfully planted herself by the chair, then over her own living, breathing-self, and answered: “I would.”

A spark of emotion crossed his face, too quick to catch. “Maybe you should wait to taste the food first, yeah? For all you know I’m giving you charcoal.” And he ducked away.

“ _Are_ you giving me charcoal, Ranger Snow?”

The muscles in his back rolled. “If there’s any charcoal here,” He grumbled. “I’ll be the one eating it.”

It was lucky she was already sitting, she felt rather faint.

“Ah—damn, I forgot to ask. Are you vegetarian? Vegan?”

She let her eyes skim down his back; mourned the snow pants obscuring the view, then answered: “I like having a bit of meat to sink my teeth into, if you don’t mind.”

His back did another fascinating shudder. “Ah—alright. That’s…good.” And he cleared his throat harshly. “Any opinions on venison?”

He wasn’t looking at her, so she didn’t bother shrugging. “It’s alright, I’ve had it a few times up North.”

“Visiting?”

“Lived.” She answered. “First eighteen years of my life, actually. The deer hunt is religion up there. Opening weekend? National holiday.”

He laughed outright. “Shit, it really was, wasn’t it? Did you ever know one of those types that’d douse themselves in doe piss beforehand, or—”

She slapped the table. “I _did._ Oh my gods, we called them pisspants! It was the worst bloody thing—Mom wouldn’t even let Theon into the house the year he did that.”

He turned to look at her again, mouth tugging up. “Smart woman. Shared a cabin with an idiot who did that once—never again.”

“I completely understand.” Gods, that mouth could make a woman punch-drunk. “You hunt at all?”

“Have to for the job. Bring down an animal with tranqs to tag it, or move it elsewhere, or take it to the vet. Sometimes we have to kill a sick animal to keep a herd safe.” Casually, not even looking over, he reached for the cutting board and tossed a bit of meat to Lady. She caught it midair and gobbled it up. “Never did see much point in doing more. A few coworkers took me with them into The Wall to hunt, but I ended up just watching anything I saw walk by. You?”

He couldn’t be real. He really, truly couldn’t.

She dug a thumb into her palm. “Too cold, too boring, and I guess I’m just too soft to shoot poor Bambi. I cried the first few years my dad hung a deer up in the garage.” She shuddered. “All that blood. He had to do it at Uncle Benjen’s until I was like—sixteen, I think.”

“I don’t blame you there.” The pan shifted in his hand, and he flicked a quick glance to its contents before sliding right back to her. “Where’s your family at, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Winterfell, and they’re still up there. Mom, dad, and Rickon.” It sent a warm memory surfacing. “Rick loves hunting the most of my whole family. He went out with dad the first year he could when he was a kid. I took a box of his ammo and shook it before he left—told him the bullets were dizzy now and wouldn’t hit a deer. He _cried.”_

Jon’s mouth twitched. Spasmed. “You monster.”

She puffed up proudly. “I take full responsibility for my actions.” And that brogue of his was growing rather familiar to the ear. “The Wall, huh? Spend a lot of time up there?”

And a shadow passed. A shift in the jaw; shuttering in the eyes. “I was in the Night’s Watch Service a few years. I guess you could say I knew my way around up there. Before that, I was all over.”

A fist clenched in her gut. She’d done something wrong; she knew it. Said the wrong thing. She always did, she—

“—but I guess we’re still a pair of Northerners, when you get down to it.” And he offered her another warm-mouthed grin. All-consuming.

 _Gods._ “Of course we are.”

Without fanfare, Jon turned with the cast iron skillet and started dishing onto a pair of plates. She shot out of her chair. “I can—”

He warded her off. “No, Sansa, I got it.”

Her stomach plummeted, and she weakly offered: “I can…get the coffee ready?”

And his face softened. “Yeah. Please.”

It was at least one thing she could do for him, after everything he’d done for her. She hurried to the woodstove and then poked around in a few cabinets until she found the mugs. With a careful hand she took the pot and poured two cups out, black and thick as pitch. The pot went back, she grabbed the mugs, and by the time she got back to the table, she found two steaming plates waiting and Jon valiantly trying to ward Lady off with an arm around them. “Get!”

Lady licked her chops, ears straight as arrows above her head. Sansa sighed and gave her a swift nudge. “ _No_. Tummy, Lady.”

Lady looked to the plates, her, Jon, and then swiveled back to her in perfect desolation.

 _“Tummy._ ” She repeated, and Lady sulkily dropped to the floor. “Sorry.” She offered to Jon along with the promised coffee.

“Damn tall dog.” He answered, and moved his arm from its protective encirclement to take the mug. “What is she?”

She let go of the mug at the feel of his fingers, abruptly warm and then shocking away. His gaze snapped to her. She flushed hard and met him square. “Oh…Direwolf. She’s a Direwolf.”

“No shit.” And his gaze yanked from her and back to the dog at their feet. “How’d you swing that? We’ve always wanted a few for the Service, but only federated money can afford them, and we ain’t Feds.”

“They are expensive.” She hedged and went poking at her plate. Beans, venison sausage, half a bagel, fried potatoes. She would have been gorging herself already, if not for the nerves surfacing. “But I didn’t buy her. My mom founded the breed, and Lady’s a special case. She was a gift.”

His jaw dropped. “Wait—hold up. Your mom is _Catelyn Stark?”_

And her jaw nearly dropped, too. “She’s—gods, yeah. She is. Wow. Most people have never heard of her.”

“I’m not most people.” He said, and she’d heard that in King’s Landing before; in plenty of tones and voices, and all of them conceited. But from his mouth, it wasn’t. It was plain. “I saw her once—at a distance, mind you. There was this big conference thing with service dogs; it’s where we picked up the batch that Ghost came from. Everyone wanted to talk to her, but we couldn’t even get a foot in with all the Military types crowding.”

“Small world.” She responded, dazed.

He blinked twice, apparently dazed himself. “Seems like. I should have guessed—from the name and the hair and the giant dog, and all.”

“There are more Starks than just us, you realize. It’s an extremely common surname. People in the North took it en masse from their dead Kings after The Incursion.”

He rolled into a shrug again, seemingly not willing to give up the claim nor argue it out. She didn’t feel much like arguing either. Besides, most men never wanted to hear her go off on one of her Northern historical tangents, anyhow.

She ate one forkful of food, another, then watched Jon do the same. Her careful eye traveled over his body and then his sweater, until she realized: “That’s not Lady’s fur.”

“No.” And he dropped his fork and reached to rub at his shoulder again. “I was going to talk to you about that. Ghost, my search and rescue dog? He’s upstairs, but I wasn’t sure how this one—” He jerked his chin down. “Would feel about it.”

She gasped. “Poor baby, you have to bring him down! Lady loves other dogs.”

“You sure about that?”

Gorgeous he might be, but tactful he was not. “I think I know what my dog is like, Jon.”

He raised his hands. “Just wanted to be sure.”

“…right.” And she stared down at her plate; took a bite of venison so she wouldn’t have to say more. The food was good, it really was, and yet her swallowing it wasn’t easy.

The silence only lasted a minute until his fork and knife stilled. “Ghost’s good.” Jon offered. “Loves other dogs, too. He doesn’t really get to see too many with us living up here.”

She took the conversational lifeline for what it was. “Is this place your office, or your house?”

“Bit of both? It’s an outpost—a jump-off-point for surveys and any logging that needs to be done.” He paused a long moment. “Rescues, too.”

Her mouth curved ruefully. “Lucky for us, then.” And she looked him in the eye again.

His brow was pinched. “Yeah. Lucky.” And something seemed to crowd behind his teeth. Whatever it was, it didn’t spill. He glanced out the window. “There’s also a weather station on the roof. It’s a bit of a two-fer out here. We have to be efficient.”

Efficient was right. “And it looks like you were outside today already.”

“Somebody had to shovel the garage roof so it doesn’t collapse.” And he pointed his fork at her plate. “Eat, then we’ll introduce you two to Ghost. Sound fair?”

“Very fair, Ranger.” But just to be contrary, she picked up her mug.

“Careful,” He murmured, gaze heavy on her hands. “I make it a bit strong.”

“We’ll see.” She said tartly, and kept her eyes locked on his when she wrapped her lips around the rim and drank.

It hit like diesel fuel. Her mouth revolted, and a cough rumbled up her throat. Her poor chest flared up, and she pressed her wrist to her mouth to try and stem the tide. It was too late. Jon picked up his own mug, taking a quiet sip as he watched her struggle. She glared back at him through watering eyes.

His lips twitched. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Your smugness very loudly didn’t say anything.”

He took another drink. “Let me get you some milk and sugar, sweetheart, hmmmm?”

 _Sweetheart._ It rattled around in her ribs, lodged behind her heart, made a bloody nest there. 

Jon looked rather startled. She nodded her assent, and he leapt to his feet to fetch her powdered milk and a bag of sugar, and quite possibly half the kitchen if she asked for it.

The next time she took a sip of coffee with his eyes on her face, it warmed her all the way to her toes.

“Good?” He asked.

And she smiled behind her mug. “Very.”

/~/~/~/

Seeing Sansa awake was a revelation. Or a kick to the gut—he hadn’t really decided. There was time yet; time for him to vomit his heart all over his boots if she just looked his way a little longer.

The first hit had been those hazy eyes. The slow spark. The way motion and whatever was _herself_ had rushed in that pink-edged bloom into her face. The firelight on her had been the second blow, the third her voice coming so raspy one moment, only to rise sweeter and sweeter the next.

He was out of his godsdamn mind. First searching for her, then seeing her face, then having her wide-awake and alive right in front of him—

But he couldn’t. He really, truly, bloody well _couldn’t._ She’d been so fucking fragile in his hands, so warm and trusting. Even kneeling between her bare legs…

He’d kept a lid on it. _Tight._

That first hour awake she hadn’t really been following him, eyes drifting over his shoulder or to a wall, or even into the fire. It was a vulnerability he couldn’t betray. He’d never been so careful with another human being. Never been so careful with _anything_. She’d been entirely dependent on him, and it’d put a fire in his blood.

He wouldn’t hurt her. Bare or not. Awake or asleep. Soft or sharp. Sitting across from him at the kitchen table, humor dancing in her eyes, face flush and tongue skimming her lip with every bite. Every word.

Cooing at her dog. Refilling his coffee. Shooting him little barbs whenever it suited her.

And gods, those eyes on him. _Blue._ Even now with her fully upright, he still couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He was a godsdamned professional, and she was stuck here with him. Doing anything more than looking after her would make him a bastard of the highest order.

_Well, fuck me, then._

He was going to die from acute yearning within twenty-four hours. Less. He just—he had to put it in perspective. She’d be gone by Sunday, so all he had to do was keep it together. And keep his hands to himself. And keep his fucking _mouth_ shut.

Somebody back at the Wall had to be laughing right now, not even knowing why.

It was fine _._ He wasn’t talkative; it’d be easy to handle.

“Ghost’s a Husky-Malamute mostly, with a bit of Black Shepherd from the herding breeds in the Vale. I’ve had him track a downed elk over a river, once. He’s fantastic.”

_What the actual fuck, Snow._

But Sansa just smiled at him, sweet as that sugar she’d put in her coffee. “He sounds wonderful, what breeder did he come from?”

He had no earthly idea. “I’m…not sure. Somewhere out of Highgarden, I think?”

She nodded to herself, a little dent in her brow as she said: “Willas, probably.”

He didn’t know how to feel about that leap. Knew that he shouldn’t be feeling anything, no matter what man’s name came out of her mouth. It was none of his business. Anxious, he went rubbing at his shoulder again. Gods, his entire back was throbbing now. Something yesterday really had strained his back, and going out at first light to shovel the garage, sure as hell hadn’t done him any favors.

Sansa’s eyes caught on his arm. He stopped rubbing immediately. It was fine, this was fine.

He was _fine._

He took to the stairs. At the top, he glanced back to where Sansa was waiting patiently with a hand around Lady’s collar. She saw the question in his face. “I’m sure. Lady hasn’t figured out stairs yet with the leg. This’ll be fine.”

And that pressed a memory at him again: Lady snarling, crouched down and then shying away _._ It dug a pit inside him. “How long’s she been hurt?”

Sansa’s gaze jittered away, and her hand went tucking at hair that was already tied back. “Little over a week.”

He didn’t like that at _all_. But for her, right now, he’d put on a smile that he didn’t feel. “Alright.” And then went to fetch Ghost.

His dog was already at the bedroom door, alert and his backside wrigglingly madly. Jon couldn’t help but grin. “Hey buddy, wanna go make a friend?”

Ghost woofed.

A moment later, there was an answering woof from the stairs. Ghost reared back, then started dancing and wagging his tail so hard, Jon would have sworn a man could have lost a kneecap to it. “Ease up, bud, c’mon.” He got ahold of the dog’s collar, then commanded: “Follow. Close.” And led him towards the stairs.

Lady froze at the bottom. Ghost froze at the top.

Slowly, two tails started swishing.

Sansa’s jaw trembled. Her eyes looked glossy. “See?” She whispered to Lady. “That’s Ghost, he can be your new friend.”

He looked to Sansa, waited until she met his eyes and nodded. She backed Lady up a half-dozen steps, and he brought Ghost down. “ _Careful.”_ He told his dog and then let go. Sansa did the same.

There was snuffling, tufts of fur, whirling bodies. Snouts and noses and tails, and little clacking claws. Ghost danced around Lady, and she tried her best to match him hop for hop, doggy-delight in their every leap.

Sansa clasped her hands together under her chin. “They’re in _love.”_

“Seems a little early for that, don’t you think?”

“Don’t rain on my parade, Jon.” And she darted a glance to him. “And no, it’s never too soon.”

Well. _Fuck._

Sansa leaned down, wincing briefly as she pressed her hands to her knees. He nearly reached for her, then just as quickly snapped his hands away. Gods, if he could just figure out how to leave her alone for two fucking seconds—

“Babies!” She called. Both dogs, sensing attention in their immediate future, rushed for her. Her giggles rang across the room, and it washed through him like champagne. She tried to pet both dogs at once, and all he could do was _stare_ at her while the dogs jockeyed for position. Ghost got one particular long rub from Sansa’s gentle hands, and in jealous response, Lady used her greater size to shove him aside.

He sympathized. “Trouble in paradise already?”

Sansa huffed at him. “You have a pair of hands that could be helping out here, you know.”

With her bent over like she was in front of him—shit, there were plenty of things his hands could have been helping. First being the curve of that gorgeous backside, then maybe he could slip between—

Gods _damn_ it. Change the subject. Change the bloody _subject_. “I forgot to ask; do you have anybody you need to contact? Someone in White Harbor?”

And that knocked the smile right off her face. “No, I mean—I was going to see my sister.” Her gaze dropped fast. “It was…a surprise.”

“Okay,” He said slowly, dragging it out to see if she’d look up. She didn’t. Something was wrong, and it made his insides squirm. “That’s fine. And work’s good, then? Boyfriend?”

She snapped upright. “Shit!” And then clapped her hands over her mouth with a high-pitched squeak.

It was unreasonably endearing, and quite possibly a horrible letdown that he shouldn’t be _feeling_. “Okay.” He coughed. “Right. I can get you—”

Her hands fluttered spasmically. “I didn’t call into _work_.” And then she was paling even under the bruises. Her breath came sharper. Lady stilled and then alerted at her feet.

“Hey, it’s fine. Sansa.” But her eyes were fixed on some far point. “ _Sansa.”_

Her gaze darted to him, but he could still see the gears turning too fast. He wanted to touch her; cup her shoulders again to try and ease her. He knew that he couldn’t. “With the weather station on the roof, we’ve got a satellite passing overhead six times a day to take the data dumps. Look—” He checked his watch. “We’ve got an hour until the next pass. Why don’t you…go try the showers, or I’ll make you more coffee, and then you can get an email sent off, okay?”

Her voice went small. “Is there any way faster?”

Not one he particularly wanted to take. “I’ve got a Sat-phone, but it’s about twenty minutes by snowmobile to get anywhere high enough to hit a signal. And with the storm like it is…”

“Of course.” She said, deflated, and he hated that he couldn’t do a damn thing to help. Her feet shuffled in place, then one palm pushed at her cheek and then over her hair. She grimaced. “…showering would be good.”

A thought flickered. _Don’t do it._ It glimmered a little brighter; red hair weighed with water, warmth sleeking, skin bare and slick in all that steam— _shut the fuck up, holy hells._

He’d find some way to make this better. Then, gods willing, he’d find some way not to fucking ruin it.

He wetted his lips. “Sure.” And tried desperately to quell the urge to invite himself along.

Easy to handle, his godsdamn _ass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My notes in no particular order:
> 
> Poor Sansa. So thirsty. Poor Jon, also thirstin' keen. When will they be free.
> 
> I am not going to explain the finer points of deer baiting, but lest said: yes, there are idiots who douse themselves in doe-piss instead of putting it on a lure like a normal human being. This is done to attract bucks in rut who are looking for a doe. For the purpose of shooting the buck dead, if that wasn't clear.
> 
> And yep: Catelyn is the dog breeder and trainer here, not Ned. Fuck Ned. He wanted to kill the puppies by their mother, and murdered Lady without a second thought. I wouldn't trust that man with a Direwolf as far as I could throw him. Nuh-uh, in this universe, Catelyn gets the cool job and Ned is the bit player. Fight me. (Also, Cat strikes me as the right combo of nurturing and no-nonsense to raise dogs. Also fight me. (ง'̀-'́)ง )
> 
> Sidebar: Sansa didn't have a thing with Willas, she just knows all the major dog breeders in Westeros through her mum. Jon just likes jumping to conclusions. I'm mentioning this now because it literally never gets brought up again.
> 
> Dead Stark Kings and The Incursion: historical backstory for this verse. Some combo of book/show events happened way back when, but instead of the ridiculous Bran the Broken nonsense, the Seven Kingdoms became Seven once more. Some centuries passed with them doing their own thing, then across the sea, Volantis/Lys/Myr/Tyrosh mashed together into a very crazed New Valyrian Empire. Think the land-grabbing tendency of the Roman Empire, crossed with the insane racial purity of the Nazis, all backdropped against a Napoleonic age. New Valyrian Empire (NVE) invaded Westeros in a few spots for the express purpose of murdering all the Royal lines in Westeros. They thought this would demoralize the continent into easy surrender. They were wrong.
> 
> Lest said, an eight year war ensued. Never fight a land war in the North (or Eurasia). This led to the Kingdoms Federating into one, as they were fighting tooth and claw not to be enslaved or eradicated by the NVE. They stayed Federated afterwards because they liked being the biggest kid on the block.
> 
> The direct royal line of the Starks though, was unfortunately wiped out in initial Incursion. Some other distant branches of the family were around, but had already diffused into the population at large. (There is also probably a Princess Sansa legend here in the same vein as Princess Anastasia in our world. You know, Lost Stark Princess smuggled out of the castle and hidden as a peasant. If you want Avalanche!Sansa to unknowingly descend from that royal line, feel free.)
> 
> Lastly, my poor girl,
> 
> Lady: New friend! :D  
> Lady: New friend stealing pets from mum!!!! D:
> 
> But all will be forgiven very soon...now, next chapter: thristing, flirting, self esteem issues, snowfall, and cute dogs. The whole nine yards.
> 
> (p.s. thanks for the well wishes. For those of you who haven't heard, I was diagnosed with COVID-19 a week ago. The illness and recovery has been rough. :( But I hopefully seem to be on the upside now. Hopefully.)


	5. Cross Loading

She knew Jon’s attentiveness shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. Taking her upstairs with a hand at her back, putting a towel into her arms, inviting her to use anything she found in the bath. Asking her to sit down if she felt even the least bit dizzy, and then to shout for him if she had any trouble…

That last bit had sent her mind spiraling. Maybe she should feel faint in the shower. Woozy. Call for Jon and have him swoop up her poor, naked body, into those big strong arms—

She pinched at her thigh. _Sansa, you absolute tart. Leave the poor man be._

The whole fantasy almost made her forget—everything. Her life; the crumbling unto it. She should have been at work two hours already, and with no word to her supervisor, and from there to Mr. Baelish—gods above. Her car was wrecked, and nobody knew where she was. How was she supposed to get to Arya? How was she supposed to get back _home?_ How—

“You good?” Jon asked, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body. They were of a height to each other, she realized. Eye to eye. There’d be no bending or tiptoes for either of them to press their mouth to the other.

She swallowed a sharp little want. “M’good.” And scurried into the bathroom before that yearning could pull her any further astray. To try and lean into him; to put her hand to the cut of his jaw just so she could _feel_ him.

She almost locked herself in to escape it. She’d never been this attracted to…anyone. Not Waymar in secondary, not either of the Edrics in college, and certainly not Joffrey in all his golden and wretched glory. It was an urge; blood pumping hot and hurt and _needy_ if only to pull him closer. Make him _one_ with her.

It was animal magnetism, surely, a beautiful man in too close proximity. Or maybe it was something simpler. She’d always dreamed of heroes and adventures as a girl, but the older she’d gotten, the more she’d come to realize those things were more childhood fantasy than reality. But here she just might stand corrected. If the man who’d saved her life wasn’t a hero, who else could be?

Or maybe it was just that…nobody had cared, or been nice to her, or even just _listened_ to her in so bloody long. It was loneliness. Starvation. It’d been six months since any pretended bit of warmth from Joffrey, four since she’d broken it off. A month since she’d last been touched, and that had been—

She brushed her jaw, and the memory brushed back.

The detonation. The aching of it. Shock, and then shame.

She pushed it away. It’d been so long, she just had to try—

And then she saw her face in the mirror.

“ _Oh.”_ And it nearly knocked her legs from under her. The bruises were lurid. _Raw._ Black in the eye sockets and blue through the jaw; mottled from purple to red in her cheeks and nearly up to the hairline.

Something in her that sounded like Joffrey hissed: _Hideous. Hideous, hideous girl—_

The sweater peeled up, then Jon’s shirt. Her chest beneath was a horror. One long band of broken veins ran from shoulder to hip. Violet sharp. Brown mottled. Green foggy and black weeping. It looked caustic. Malignant. Her breasts were half-covered in smears and blemishes from all the bruising she’d taken in the crash.

He’d seen her. He’d seen it all. All those little flickers of warmth, and Jon’s eyes locked to hers—he’d been humoring her. Poor thing, poor little Sansa. Had to coddle and keep her safe. Make sure she didn’t fuck something else up, too.

It’d been kindness and nothing else. Just kindness and a good man giving it, and she shouldn’t be so devastated by this. So _selfish._

She’d known Jon for all of a day, and yet the truth of it hurt—knowing she’d wanted too much and been the fool again for trying.

/~/~/~/

He only flipped on the radio once the shower was running. Mostly, if he was being honest, to keep his thoughts firmly to himself. The ancient computer was burring and warming up behind him. It’d be ready for Sansa; he’d make sure of it.

The radio in his hand spit static, and then Vardis Egen’s voice: “What’s the Northern word, Snow?”

For the next ten minutes he kept himself occupied. Sansa was up and about, no airlift needed. Conditions were poor at North Base, but nothing catastrophic.

In return and to his unending delight, Vardis told him that a second Gate hadn’t been properly closed and there’d been some kind of pileup of cars in the lower Vale. While he didn’t wish that suffering on anyone, it would sure as hell make things easier when he lodged his complaint. And it’d be harder for Corbray and his merry band of idiots to claim any sort of shit about Piney being closed.

But, true to his word to Mormont, he kept his mouth shut. He’d like to think by now he’d at least learned not to pour fuel on the fire. His stomach itched.

Vardis then told him that snowplows were reportedly getting stuck, and that anything that wasn’t a snowmobile was outright useless. They exchanged weather reports, but once that was done, the computer was beeping for attention, so he gave his sign-off and dropped the line.

He booted programs and read the raw weather data, then got the email package up so Sansa could load her credentials and message. The linkup window was only eight minutes; downloads and uploads had to exchange fast.

Two rooms away the shower shut off. To his everlasting shame, his head came up like a hunting dog scenting blood.

_Godsdamn._

So what if Sansa Stark was naked with just a few walls between them? He wouldn’t do anything about it. Not with his hands or his cock nor anything else. There’d be no palms at her waist; no mouthing at droplets slipping down her neck and then onto her breasts—

He ruthlessly pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.” Jon Snow, randy as a bloody teenager, and all over a woman who probably had a boyfriend and wouldn’t look at him twice if they passed on the street. It’d be funny if he didn’t feel so out of his mind about it.

That dour thought was enough to get him back on an even keel. Which was lucky, because five minutes later Sansa showed up barefoot with her hair in a towel, and still wearing his clothes.

“Hey.” He said, hoping to every god he didn’t sound as stupid as he felt.

Her eyes flickered to him and then to the floor. “Hey.” She echoed dully, and something in him sank.

She’d been alright so far this morning. Better than he’d hoped, honestly. But he’d long learned in this job that when death was stared straight in the face, there was always a second comedown. Once the relief of being alive faded, the true realization would set in of being _this close_ to worse.

If that’s what this was, he’d deal with it. And if she had to come down here, he’d catch her.

Jon beckoned. “I’ve got things ready, c’mon.”

She shuffled over, and he quickly jumped up to offer her the chair. She ducked into it and refused to meet his eyes.

Something had changed, but all he could do was be calm for her and let it come. “Okay, so what you’ll want to do here is…”

He guided her through the process carefully. She just nodded and got to work. In some helpless effort not to crowd her, he started moving papers and getting logbooks together. He tried to appear productive. _Professional._

“When are we leaving?”

So professional that he tripped over a set of snowshoes. “What?”

“When are we leaving? To go back? I need to…get back to KL, for work.”

“Uh…” He did the mental math. “I can get you over to Strongsong on Sunday.”

She bit at her lip. “Sunday? But—why?”

“Well—” He went to a topographical map of the Upper Vale pinned to the wall, and to his elation, she looked him in the face and joined him. “It’s Friday now. Snow’s going to keep falling most of the day, and at about dusk, the winds are picking up. Gale-force. It’ll last through Saturday, and there is absolutely no power in the heavens or the earth that’ll get me to take you out in that. After that’s done—” He pointed to a dot on the map. “We’re out of daylight. Roads I took us up on are impassable now by vehicle, so I’m taking you to Strongsong by snowmobile. It’s about a three-hour ride.”

Her face pinched with worry. “But what about Lady?”

“I’ve got a plan for that.”

And her expression smoothed out. Softened. “Thank you, Ranger Snow.”

“You’re welcome.” And he wished she’d stop calling him that to his face; it got him absurdly hot under the collar.

She lingered there beside him, shoulder to shoulder and her eyes on his. He stared back blatantly. Rather abruptly, her cheeks flushed and she scurried back to the computer.

He tried not to notice it, he really did, but from what he glimpsed she only sent out one email. It was for work. _Huh._ Must not have anyone living with her, then, to miss her. Fucking gods, he shouldn’t be _thinking_ this.

“Sansa, I need to get out and finish shoveling, and then start tying things down before tonight. You can hang out here with the dogs. Take anything you want in the kitchen, or—”

She leapt up. “I can help! With—with anything outside, if you want.”

“Sweetheart—” And he tripped over his own tongue. “You got pretty banged up yesterday, I don’t think…”

She swallowed hard, and her eyes went back on the floor. Her shoulders hunched in as if she was raising walls. “Right.” Her voice went small. “Sorry.”

It’d been so important to her to help him with breakfast. Just little things, and yet it’d made her smile at him like the sun. And fuck it, he wanted that back for her. “I mean…I need to get the solar panels dusted of snow, if you could help with that. But only if you don’t strain anything, got it?”

Her head rocked up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And there followed a hopeful little hitch. “And we can bring the dogs?”

“I think they’d riot if we didn’t.”

A smile bloomed. “Perfect. We can’t leave them here to get up to no good.”

“Course not,” He jerked his head towards the door, and to his surprise, she eagerly slipped out in front of him. It made his breath judder. “They’re only good girls and boys when we’re looking, otherwise—”

“Trouble.” And she _sounded_ like trouble. “At least it’s not like my mom’s kennels. We always had to keep our boys and girls separated if we wanted to take them out to play.”

He wanted _her_ to take him out and play. “Oh, yeah—” He agreed. “Same. I always have to be careful with Ghost when I take him down to Valley Base. All our SAR dogs are breeding lines, so—”

She wrenched to a halt. “ _Jon.”_

He nearly stumbled over her. “What?”

She stared at him in horror. “Lady’s a breeding line!”

They gawked at each other, panic dawning, and with a lurch they bolted for the stairs.

/~/~/~/

“I don’t _care_ how handsome he is. You don’t just let the first cute boy you see on the mountain have his wicked way with you! You don’t know him; you don’t know where he’s been!”

“I thought they were in love.”

Sansa rounded on him. “You hush up!”

Jon hushed with a guilty little jolt.

Sansa, a fist on either side of Lady’s collar from where she’d been chastising the dog vociferously, glared at them a little harder. “You and that _scoundrel_ know what you did, so I don’t want to hear it.” And she turned right around to start the scolding again.

Jon glanced down at the dog he was holding at his side. Ghost gazed back up and whined pitifully. Jon hissed: “Sorry bud, I tried.”

He and Sansa had barely made it in time to separate the dogs, before their beasts became the beast with two backs. At least, he _hoped_ the pair hadn’t already gotten in a go. He had a feeling if that was true, Sansa would start chastising _him._ And he shouldn’t be getting so bothered at the idea. Her brow all scrunched, fire in her eyes, pursing her lips at him and telling him in that tart little voice that he’d been a no good, rotten boy—

“Ah, fuck.”

Sansa glanced to him.

His face burned. “Nothing!”

She eyed him dubiously and turned again.

Ghost whined, and Jon patted his head in commiseration. “I know, buddy. Ruined it for you with a girl like _that_. Awful of me.”

The dog merely grumbled an agreement.

/~/~/~/

She never would have thought a snow getup could be sexy, until Ranger _Snow_ got into one. All black; heavy duty enough it avoided all that puffy nonsense. It almost looked sleek _._ And with his balaclava and goggles on—

She had no idea why the faceless-thing was doing things for her, but it was. It was awful. It was _tragic._

After that near muckup with Lady and Ghost, they’d laughed outright and started teasing again. She’d tried her best not to let it go to her head. Even as his hands helped her into a spare set of gear, and she’d maddeningly fantasized about him peeling her right back out of it and bending her over the nearest table, she knew it all had to stay just that. Fantasies.

But gods. His chest against her back. Covering her utterly. Whispering all sort of praises and filthy promises to her, as he drove himself between her thighs—

She could have these things and let them go. It wasn’t hurting anyone but herself.

The disappointment that morning in the bathroom had been sharp, and made so much heavier by everything she still seemed to be dragging with her. Now a little steadier and over the shock of seeing her face, she knew it’d been no reason to go to pieces. She was alive and so was Lady. Ranger Snow was kind and easy on the eyes. He wouldn’t find her attractive, but that was okay. They’d have nice chats for a few days, and then she’d go back to KL to try and mop up the mess she’d made.

She’d already sent an apologetic email to Mockingbird to report in sick a second day. She’d figure out something to send to Arya tomorrow to get her to Strongsong, then she’d pass Lady off to her sister, get a rental car for herself, then drive through the night to KL. Somehow, someway, she’d be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at work on Monday morning. She’d even come up with an excuse for the bruising, too.

It would all even out. Ranger Snow had promised to take them from the house at first light Sunday. And for godssakes, the man had even managed to bring her purse with them out of the wreck, so she still had her driver’s license and credit cards and keys. He’d done so much for her already; made everything so much easier.

They’d be okay.

So as cheerful and grateful as she could be, Sansa followed her Ranger-in-black-armor into the storm. The snow was falling so heavily it was as if it was dragging the very wind to stillness. Everything was hazy and soft. It brought the world to silence.

It made her remember Winterfell so strongly it sent a frisson down her spine.

But when the tap came to her shoulder, she turned to accept the large bristle-brush the Ranger handed her. He grabbed both her shoulders and then angled her bodily to point up the ridge. Distantly, just shadows against the falling snow, she saw a field of solar panels rising up the mountainside. They helped power the electricals for the house, he’d told her. They were off-grid here and this was _important._

She nodded fiercely and set out with Ghost and Lady on her heels. Lady at least was behaving now. Her dog always knew when Sansa was unhappy, so even hobbling along, the dog only had eyes for her.

And Sansa only had to give a few nudges and one swift whack to Ghost’s bottom to keep his manners _gentlemanly_ around her baby. Her mother would murder her if she let one of her prized pack get pupped off some dog of unknown pedigree. Though even knowing that, her eyes darted to them in regret.

They _would_ make cute puppies. That white fur, that charming little snout, that _face_ along with Lady’s innate cuteness _—_ they’d make the most adorable little balls of fur that _ever_ _were._

Not that it could happen. She couldn’t even keep Lady, now. It’d be a fool-thing to dream of more.

And she was done being a fool.

For the next two hours she cleared off solar panels with the brush. Jon had told her they were only getting the worst off to prevent breakage. There was no keeping them fully bare with it snowing like it was, but she still tried. She wanted him to see her do a good job; that she could be useful and not the complete dead weight she’d been on him so far.

It was obvious that nothing would happen between them, but she could admit to herself that she liked him. And in turn, that she wanted him to like _her._

Even if it was only for a few days.

By the time she got to the tree line where the panels ended, she was winded. Her chest ached steadily as she gathered the dogs and sent them trundling back. The snow was high, but she had snowshoes and along with Ghost, they managed to blaze a trail for Lady to follow them back down.

At one point she glanced back, and it was just in time to see Ghost dart a quick a lick to Lady’s face. When Ghost saw her see him, he froze.

“ _You.”_ She accused.

Ghost yelped and scuttled away. Lady swiveled wildly towards her, both guilty and yet profoundly betrayed.

Gods, why did she always have to feel like the bad guy? “You know it can’t happen, baby.”

A fuzzy head drooped. Godsdamn, she _was_ the bad guy. But it couldn’t happen, and all she could do was shake her head and continue down.

When they got back to the house, all the shutters were across the windows and barred. Jon was turned from them—sitting on the mostly bare garage roof with his legs dangling off the edge. He was rubbing at his shoulder again. Steadily. Halfway to him, he switched arms and started rubbing at the other side.

Her mouth went brittle. “Are you hurt?”

He jolted, and his arms smacked to his sides. “What?”

Her breath plumed. “Are you hurt? You’ve been rubbing at your shoulders all day.”

“S’nothing.” And he got up, then scared the living daylights out of her by leaping from the roof onto one of the snowbanks. “Wanna help me tie some stuff down?”

She wondered what he’d say if _she_ wanted to be the thing tied down. Something horrified, probably.

Her voice curled sweetly. “Certainly, Ranger.” But this time she kept a laser-focus on him. While they negotiated the tie-downs together, she watched him reach up for his shoulders another half dozen times. Sometimes, he caught himself before making any contact. Other times, he didn’t.

When they got the last knot done, he asked: “Late lunch?”

“Only if I can help cook.”

His mask was still up, but she could hear his grin as he answered: “You’re on, Stark.”

They turned to the house and she let him drift out in front of her. The dogs jostled around them. For the seventh time, absently, he reached up for his shoulders.

“Ha!”

Jon leapt like a startled rabbit.

“You _are_ hurt!” She accused.

“I’m not—”

“You _are._ ”

He ripped down his mask. “You’re not a doctor.”

“How would you know? You haven’t asked!”

He paused. “…you’re not, are you?”

She huffed loudly. “No.”

“So what is it you do then, off in that big city?”

“I work in an Auction House. Lot appraisal, verifications, some corporate curation too, but— _don’t you change the subject!”_

And that awful, horrible grin of his, was back across his mouth. “Sounds fancy, honey.”

“It is. Now shut up and get in the house.”

He grinned wider. “If you say so.”

She was going to shake him senseless. “I say so, now _get.”_

/~/~/~/

As soon as they were out of their gear, she ordered him into the kitchen and onto a chair. He probably liked that part a bit too much. Though that was rapidly being overtaken by the now familiar urge to shove her up against the cabinets, and see how much that tart little mouth could order him around, with all of his weight pushing her up and parting her thighs…

He was fucked, there were no two ways about it.

“Hot pack or ice pack, Ranger Snow?”

“You can call me Jon.”

She arched one delicate brow. “Hot or cold, Ranger?”

He sighed loudly. “Cold.”

That brow of hers arched even higher.

Godsdamn. “Thank you so much, Sansa.”

She smirked. “Manners cost us nothing, Jon.”

When she turned to the freezer, he very carefully pulled off his sweater and draped it over his lap before she could catch sight of his blatantly hard cock.

 _Fuck you_. He thought at his lap savagely. His cock, too busy thinking about Sansa and how good his manners could be for her (or even more enticingly, how _rude),_ gave not a single fuck for his wellbeing. Or professionalism. Or his bloody _job._

“Here.” She said, so much softer as she wrapped the icepack in a towel and brought it over to lay along his shoulders. She looked so proud of herself, so gentle, that it eased off some of the tension crackling between them—or just crackling for him. He knew that, damn it all.

But he still put his hand over hers. “Thank you.”

She warmed then; eyes blue as a high Vale summer. “You’re welcome.” And when her hand slid out from under his, he missed it.

She started puttering around the kitchen, asking him where things were and how to work the propane stove. He answered anything she asked. There were still apples in the cellar, and she got one for him and cut it like a flower to put on his plate. He ate it gratefully.

Lady stayed right at her side. Ghost, where he laid at Jon’s feet, huffed pathetically every time Lady refused to look at him. She gave the dogs little treats, even the one she’d dubbed a scoundrel not five hours ago. She put roasted almonds into a bowl for him. Refilled his water twice.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been tended to like this. Childhood, probably, and even then…

His throat felt tight; raw as an open wound. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

She glanced to him; bruises dark and lashes red. “Learn to take a _thank you_ graciously. It might come in handy, someday.”

“Alright.” He surrendered utterly. “Alright.” And then raised his glass as if the water could yet drown this thing inside him. “Tell me about your job.”

She snorted. “I don’t think it’ll interest you, unless you want to hear the minutiae of a Sansian Age tapestry, or a Targaryen Conquest gown, or—”

He cut that off swiftly. “I want to hear everything.”

She stopped. Trembled. Her voice took on an anxious little thread: “Do you?”

Somewhere in the world, there were new people for him to hate. Vendettas. A new fucking hole in his heart.

He put down his glass and made it plain: “Sansa, right now nothing would make me happier.”

And Sansa—

Sansa _beamed._

/~/~/~/

He’d thought himself fucked an hour ago, and what a naïve fool he’d been. So innocent. So unknowing of the tribulations to come.

“No.”

“Yes, Jon.” And she pointed one delicate little finger at him. He wanted to take it between his teeth. “I may not be a therapist, but I know my way around. They have us bent over tables all day with little magnifying glasses. I know how that builds up—I can _help_.”

She could not help. She was doing the exact _opposite_ of helping. She was damnning his immortal soul to every hell. She was setting him up for Mormont to put him under _special probation_ until the end of time.

And fuck. She was putting the images into his head that she was getting paid to be _bent over a table_ all day. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t _right._

“I’m fine.”

“We already had this argument outside. You aren’t; stop being so stubborn.”

“I began as I meant to go on.”

 _“Ugh.”_ She rolled her eyes skyward, and he felt so proud of himself, until: “Jon, _please_. For me?”

…fuck. No. She wouldn’t win him over like that; not so bloody easily.

She stuck out her bottom lip.

Fuck. “ _Fuck.”_

She clapped her hands. “You won’t regret it. Go sit by the couch!”

He was deeply, profoundly going to regret this. But there he still went like an idiot to the gallows; ass on the floor and his back to the couch. He stoked the fire high and watched it glaze against the windows; the shutters shunting all of it back inwards. Ship in a bottle. Suspended in light. Ghost joined him a minute later to loll over his lap with a doggy sigh of misery. Jon scratched the dog’s chest and felt something go tight in his back.

She wouldn’t ask him to take off his shirt, would she? At that thought, the tension became more of a torque. He wouldn’t take it off. It was fine. She wouldn’t ask, and even if she did, he would say no. He would—

This fantasy with her only worked when he pretended hard enough. When he ignored that he was a fucking ruin, and that she was a pretty, posh little thing that worked at an auction house touching things worth more in her hand than he’d make in a lifetime. She was so godsdamn smart; she already had a Master’s degree from the Red Keep. She’d just schooled him in all things Northern Renaissance, and why having extra bits of gray thread in a rose-knot wolf embroidery, meant that a piece had been sewn by the Good Queen herself.

And here he was: a man who’d barely scraped his GED and hadn’t seen the inside of a school since the age of sixteen.

She told him she wore gloves at work; these little lace things. He already knew that her hands were soft as silk beneath them.

His hands were hard, scarred ugly, and his body—

He didn’t know who the fuck he was trying to fool. It wouldn’t happen with her, not in a million years.

Soft footsteps sounded behind him. Sansa first, and then Lady padding in after her.

He jolted when she sat behind him on the couch. A gentle little touch came to his shoulder, and he grunted in answer. She then slung a leg so her knees were on either side of his shoulders. Without any kind of warning—not that it would have helped even if she gave it—she gripped his shoulders and started massaging them.

Long strokes, pressing down. _Warm_.

The tension in his back drained away as if it had never been. As if it had come from another life. He groaned.

“It’s helping?” She asked hopefully, before giving one particularly deep stroke behind his neck.

He groaned louder and nodded helplessly. Deep in his shoulders, the throbbing slowly became a well-worn ache. Looser. Easier.

He should have felt liquid and without a care. And in some ways, he did. But right then, her hands on him, and his head nearly bent to the floor—

His eyes _burned_.

Gods above. His entire adult life, and he’d never been cared for like this. Never had something gentle; had someone who gave a gods _damn._ When she left, he was going to lose something he could scarcely understand. And damn him to hell, he still wanted it.

He wanted _her_.

And he was going to break his own heart over it.

/~/~/~/

The winds picked up like a mourning wail, but beneath her hands, Jon was boneless. At some point in the hours the night came over them outside this cloistered place, he’d put his cheek on her knee.

She wondered if he was asleep sometimes. But then he would make some low, grumbling noise from deep in his chest, and she’d know he was still with her. And gods, could she _feel_ it. Warm all over; in her palms, her cheeks, in that aching space long neglected between her thighs.

It didn’t matter. She could feel this and let it go. Jon had no obligation to her. And maybe…maybe it was good that she could still feel this way. Be so eager: so hungry for a wanted touch.

She wasn’t broken. There was so much life after this—she was only twenty-six.

She stilled her hands. “Jon.”

He hummed sleepily.

It left her heart too full. “Lay down, darling. Go to sleep.”

“The fire?” It came out a question.

She took it as one. “I’ll get the fire.” And she pressed a hand to his neck. He leaned with it; sprawled down onto the mattress and then went limp. Ghost followed behind him, fitting as much of his body onto the makeshift bed as could before laying his head on Jon’s back. The dog’s tail thumped on the wooden floor and then calmed. She rubbed his fluffy ears.

Once and just for herself, she smoothed Jon’s hair aside. It ran thick between her fingers. The space it made inside her was a dream, though, and she let it slip away.

Sleep took him easily, and she pulled a blanket up and over him. He’d had a long few days, too.

The winds wailed. She threw a log onto the fire and then went to brush her teeth. She helped Lady up onto the couch and then, with Jon as the last shadow in her eyes, she slept.

/~/~/~/

The winds _thundered._

It came as sudden as the drop—a deafening crash, wood and stone and metal _shrieking._

Her heart detonated. Blind. Terror. _Terror_ —it was happening again. They were in danger, she’d put them in danger, they were going to die die die—

An earsplitting roar. Dogs howling.

Sansa screamed.

Palms grabbed her by the shoulder and dragged her down. She tumbled sideways, knees shocking off the floor, and then a body was rolling on top of her.

Heavy limbs. Weight. Her head clutched up by his arms and pressed into the cover of his chest.

The winds kept bellowing. The walls shuddered. The crashing echoed and then faded into the storm. For a brief moment, she’d thought the house was coming down on top of them. She wasn’t sure—it still might.

The fire was weak. When Jon pulled her from his chest, he looked alien in its glow. “Are you okay?”

Tears filmed her eyes. “I…I think so.” Her throat felt wet. Her heart was _hammering._

The dogs swarmed to them, but Jon didn’t let her go and just rolled her into his lap. “Okay.” He exhaled harshly against her hair. “Okay, we’re okay. _Fuck._ Mother Maiden holy _fuck.”_

The amount of adrenaline hitting her bloodstream was making her sick. “What was that?”

“I don’t know. Something—” He stared straight up, black-eyed, then swore again. “Fuck me—I think something came off the roof.”

“But we’re okay?”

“Yeah.” He breathed shakily. “I just—I’ll need to go to the attic. Make sure it didn’t rip a hole somewhere.”

She clutched onto him spasmically. In response, he squeezed back and rocked her. Sleep was still too close, and nothing felt real; sharp-edged and muddled and bloodless and _violent._

“I got you.” He murmured. “We’re okay. We’re all okay.”

She felt his mouth at the crown of her head, and then her temple. Nothing was real.

Time lost meaning, and she didn’t know how long it took for him to let her go, or for her to do the same. He went to the windows, then seemed to remember the shutters were barred. There was no way to see out. He vanished upstairs, and she clutched Ghost under one arm and Lady under the other, and shivered.

It’d been so small, in the car. So small and cold, while the wind was loud loud _loud—_

Jon came back down with another mattress on his shoulders. “Roof’s good.” He told her, then disappeared through another door. A minute later, he came back for his mattress by the fireplace, then a minute after that, he grabbed up all the blankets, shoved a few more into her arms, and took her by the elbow.

“I don’t want us sleeping by any windows, not until the storm calms.”

She didn’t answer, just followed.

He took them into some kind of study. It was cramped with its own fireplace and had all sorts of paperwork and tools shoved into three full walls of bookshelves. There were two heavy bags placed in a corner. She didn’t ask what they were for.

Jon had the mattresses nearly wedged together, and while he stoked up another fire, she made their beds.

Another gale roared down the peaks. She froze. Jon rushed for her, flinging one arm over her shoulder and then pushing her beneath his chest. The house shook and groaned. Strained.

It held.

He let her up and returned to the fire. She kept swallowing. A gorge kept rising.

“We’re okay?” She asked one last time as they crept into their beds. The dogs huddled close, snuffling and whimpering all the while.

Jon reached into that narrow space between them and took her by the hand. “We’re okay, I promise.”

And for the rest of that night, he held on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title for this chapter: everyone is horny and has self-esteem issues. 
> 
> But that seemed too long for a title. Anyhow.
> 
> Concerning Ghostie and little Lady, I know I'm going to get at least a half dozen comments being like LET THEM BANG. But look people, puppies are expensive, okay. Don't blame Jonsa for being sensible--blame me, lol. 
> 
> Also Sansa, maybe don't preach what you can't practice, vis a vis cute boys on mountains having their wicked ways. Just saying.
> 
> Sansian Age: The historical Age when the Good Queen Sansa ruled the North. The next five generations of her descendants ruling was known as the Northern Renaissance. The North went hard while the rest of Westeros was struggling after what Daenerys the Destroyer did across the South. The North largely and single-handedly brought the continent out of a Dark Age.
> 
> Targaryen Conquest: The period when ol Aegon was doing his conquering of Westeros. The following period was known as the Targaryen Age, but after the War with the new Valyrian Empire centuries later, everything Valyrian was so despised in Westeros that the Targaryen Age came to be known as the Targaryen Occupation instead. Is Westeros still bitter about it to this day? Hell yes.
> 
> So yeah, Sansa works in an Auction House owned by Baelish. Her specialty is the Targaryen Occupation through the entire Sansian Age. She's currently working on having a focus in Northern Renaissance artifacts as well. Her hyper-specialty is tapestries, gowns, other textiles, musical instruments, and jewelry/crowns. She can also be relied on in a pinch to try and authenticate when certain unverified documents were written.
> 
> In other news, for those of you who have seen the TV show Firefly: Mormont's Special Probation and Book's Special Hell? Same energy.
> 
> Sansa is 26 as noted here. Jon is 28 or 29, I haven't decided which yet.
> 
> Also, trolololol, looks like the storm ain't done yet! Next chapter: storming, being trapped in the house together some more, Ghost and Lady pining, and a little more conversation...
> 
> (Health update: well, feeling better today, but this weekend was no good. It seems the COVID caused something called *checks notes scribbled on hand* Pleurisy, which makes everything even more burny, short of breath, and exhausting. I posted this a bit earlier than I planned because I want one nice thing to happen this week. Thanks everybody for the well wishes--those really do make me feel better. And tell me what you think of this chapter if you can, that would also do my tired soul some good.)


	6. Sastrugi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're having a "hurray I'm out of the ER!" chapter. Because at least one thing needs to go right this weekend. ಠ_ಠ

He didn’t sleep, not really. Just drifted. Static. Waking. Static again. Every time the gales rose or the house trembled, he shot upright. The adrenaline overflow was going to _kill him._

Sansa nearly woke at times, too. But then he’d rub a thumb across the back of her hand, or murmur some bits of nothing, and she’d drift back down. Soft; her every breath whispering like a brook over the stones.

Mormont had said worst case scenario, and yet somehow he hadn’t been prepared. The forecasts hadn’t predicted the gales would sustain for this long or this _hard_. He already had two survival bags in the corner. If the house started coming down, he’d get them all into the cellar and then start praying.

They only had the Sat-phone left. When he’d gone upstairs—he hadn’t been able to tell her. There hadn’t been a hole in the attic, but by that point, he’d already guessed what had come off the roof. So when he’d sat down at the radio and turned the dial—

Static. Dead air. Static again. He hadn’t been surprised.

_When it rains, it pours. Remember that, Snow._

He hadn’t wanted to leave Sansa long enough to see if the satellite linkup would come through, but his hopes weren’t high. It had been loud, whatever had come off the roof. The radio antenna alone couldn’t have done it. And that meant weight. And that probably meant the satellite linkup, which meant—

There’d been terror on her face, on waking. Stark as naked bone. He hadn’t been able to tell her.

Not yet.

So at every howl from the mountains—bleak and broken down the crags—he wondered if this was it. If this was the moment. He should have dragged her into the cellar already, and yet…

She wouldn’t get any sleep down there. Too cold. Too damp. Not without him bundling her up in gear and full terror at what was coming. Not yet. Not _yet._ They weren’t that deep in the shit; they still had options.

He had to remember.

She made another sound. Brook-swift; whimpering. He smoothed his thumb again.

He sank. Static passed over. The gales screamed.

His brain spun; scrambled onwards as if it had never stopped. This was building too fast. If the house got taken down, odds were the garage wouldn’t survive any better. And if they got pinned into the cellar by snow or debris—holy gods on earth, he couldn’t _think_ of it. But if the garage got taken, they’d lose the snowmobiles, which meant the only way out from North Base would be a multiple-day hike or an airlift. High terrain. Cross winds. And the updrafts in the Vale were _murderous._

And they’d have to do it all with a girl fresh from a crash, a Ranger who wasn’t limping along much better, and a dog with a busted leg.

For gods’ sakes, the only one uninjured here was _Ghost._

“Fuck.” His voice caught on the walls. It broke on the bookshelves.

It died on the winds.

Sansa stirred a little. He matched her breathing and clasped both his hands around hers. Unrooted— _rooted—_ and he watched the firelight drift across her face. Wisps, fragments. Little more.

The room was dim. He’d need to put another log on the fire, soon.

Just not yet.

/~/~/~/

She woke miserably. Exhausted, hip twinging, and her skin tender to the touch. Well, miserably but for the Forest Ranger leaning over her.

His voice came like a drag of stone. “Gonna make us some food. Go back to sleep, honey.”

“Somethin’ quick.” She mumbled. “B’careful.”

There was a soft pause. “Yeah.” And he swayed down. For a moment, she thought he was going to lean in. Kiss her. But then he was shuffling up and out of the quilts and taking Ghost with him.

A fire was still burning in the hearth, but without Jon beside her, the room was bitterly cold. She burrowed back down and slipped under. It only seemed to last seconds, but when she opened her eyes again, Jon was there with a pair of bagel sandwiches stuffed with melted cheese and hash browns and hot ham.

Her nose scrunched. “That can’t have been quick.”

“Nope.” He agreed. “S’warm, though.”

She couldn’t argue that, but she could glare at him while she ate. The absolutely thickheaded, needless risk—

In answer, Jon’s mouth curled up. She looked away before her brain popped a fuse. Good _gods._

The winds kept their wailing. The beams in the walls strained. She clamored to the edge of the mattress to join him, but barely got half a foot before she was groaning. Gods, if she’d thought she’d been sore yesterday—even her _hair_ seemed to hurt now.

He reached for her. “You okay?”

She took his hand to steady herself and moved the last little bit, hunched over like an old woman. “Ow.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault.” She took a gulping breath. “Aspirin?”

He leapt away from her and returned with the bottle of pills from yesterday. She dry-swallowed two and clenched her teeth behind them. Jon took the bottle and then swallowed two of his own. Fuck. Maybe being so stubborn about helping yesterday hadn’t been her brightest idea.

His fingertips brushed her shoulder. “You alright?”

She nodded, then scrunched her eyelids so tightly shut, that the darkness behind them smeared.

He cleared his throat. “Anything I can do? You helped me out yesterday—with the massage.”

It was a nice thought. “No, it’s—everywhere. Maybe a hot shower…” But even the thought of standing right now was too much to bear. “…eventually. Maybe.”

Another gale screamed down, and Jon’s jaw latched tight. “Okay, in a bit. You still hungry?”

She nodded weakly. As soon as she finished pushing the quilt off herself, Lady darted in behind her and beneath the blankets. Only one long and fuzzy snout remained visible, and the blankets shook.

Sansa sighed. “She never would have made it.”

Jon, sandwich already half in his mouth, asked: “Mae’what?”

It was unseemly. Even gorging himself, the man was _still_ attractive. She sent him a pointed look. In answer, he raised his brows and stuffed even more bagel into his mouth.

“All of her siblings?” She jerked her chin over _._ “Strapped to men rappelling from helicopters or jumping out of planes. There are probably bombs dropping. Gun fights _._ And here she is, a little bloody wind, and…” She gestured futilely at the trembling mass, then took a bite of the sandwich Jon had spent a good fifteen minutes standing in an exterior room during a _windstorm_ to make her.

And fuck _—_ it was a damn good sandwich.

This time at least, Jon had the decency to swallow his food first. “You said she was special.”

“Especially stubborn, yeah.” And then grimaced. That’s what her mother had thought. All of them had, really. How were they to know? Lady hadn’t taken to attack training; just regarded it with deep unwillingness and petulance at every step. Sansa vividly remembered one weekend home from KL, Jory out in the yard and a full dog-bite sleeve on. At the command Lady had merely loped over, gently taken his arm into her mouth, given it a soft shake, then sprinted back to Sansa’s mother as if expecting praise for the performance.

They’d all thought her too gentle. Too stubborn. Not three months later, her mother had ultimately deemed Lady unsuited for life as a working military dog.

The irony of it now was blacker than pitch. Blood drenching. Teeth and slather and pink spittle drip-drip-dripping onto the floor. Gods. Gods above. The _screaming._ And all across that hard scrabble of heels and nails, while fire was searing through her jaw—

“Sansa?” Jon was staring at her. His hands were empty; he must have finished eating.

She blinked sluggishly. “What?”

“So that’s why you got her?” He asked, as if repeating himself.

There was an entire part of the conversation she was missing. “Yeah.” But she couldn’t show it. “She had…too much of an attention-drive. Liked people too much, so mom gave her to me when I was done with school. And here we are.”

She stared at the cabin’s floor. Here they were. Here they bloody _were_.

The pile of blankets nosed at her hip, then sniffed at her sandwich. Sansa lifted it away. “No you don’t.”

Lady whimpered piteously. Ghost, as if sensing an opening, started whimpering too.

Sansa wasn’t falling for it.

“Don’t worry, girl.” And Jon reached over and patted one blanket-covered flank. The shaking lessened, and Lady turned to press her nose into his hand. Jon grinned down at her, and Sansa felt _attacked_. “We’ll get you fed soon, hmmmm? Just let mama have hers first.”

Sansa fucking wished.

Jon scuffed his hand one more time over the dog’s skull and then leaned backwards; elbows to his knees and hands dangling slack. Gods, those hands. She knew the feel of them after that first night. Hot. Broad. Callused. It would have been kinder on her libido if she hadn’t.

But they looked so _soft_. Like she could take one and mold it to her hip. Her neck. Her breast. It was a stirring fantasy the few moments she let herself have it.

But for as relaxed as his posture looked, his shoulders were rolling forward. “So—” And it was tension on a slow crawl. “Good news, bad news.”

The storm was still shrieking, and after stuffing another bite of sandwich into her mouth, she made her choice judiciously. “Good news?”

“The roof didn’t come off.”

“And I am thrilled.”

His mouth took on a bitter little quirk. “Figured, yeah. Bad news—once we dig ourselves out, we’re gonna need to head up the mountain. Today.”

“Why?”

And his mouth twisted. “That thing off the roof last night? It was the radio antenna and the satellite link. I need to make contact with Valley Base to let them know the situation, and if you need to call anyone else…?”

As if to punctuate that, the winds tore through again. A shiver climbed her back. “We’re cut off?”

“A bit.” His expression looked pinched. “But we have the Sat-phone.”

“Which we can’t use without going up the mountain.”

It was definitely pinched now. “Yes.”

“So if something happens—”

“Nothing’s gonna happen.”

“But if it does—”

He gripped her forearm gently. “Then I’ll take care of you, alright? We’ll be okay.”

Heat climbed her neck and flooded her cheeks. She felt feverish. What was there to say to that? He had to stop _doing this_. “I know you will.” And yet… “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

“Because only one of us can panic at a time, and it was still my turn.” And he gave her arm one last squeeze, a rueful grin, and then released her. “Eat up. I’m gonna go see if I can find us a deck of cards.”

She didn’t know how to feel. Aching. Nervous. Besotted. All of the above. The storm was rolling, but Jon Snow was smiling at her. It was difficult to think any further. “Okay.”

/~/~/~/

“Play a lot of cards, Ranger?”

Jon smirked. “Now what makes you say that?”

She looked down at the mound of honey roasted peanuts on his plate, and then at her very paltry one. He took one from his pile and tossed it into his grinning mouth. Chewing it very loudly in her direction after that was just plain rude.

Her face did something painfully insincere. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Hmmmmmm.” He answered, amused, and then reached behind himself to grab Ghost by the collar. The dog, clearly trying to clamor onto the mattress with Lady, grumbled at them and then slunk back to the fireplace. Jon spared the dog an apologetic glance before swiveling back to her. “Downtime happens in this job more than you’d think—we have to pass the hours somehow. And if it makes you feel any better, I get fleeced regularly during Service games.”

“Surrounded by card sharks, are you?”

“On all sides.” And he laid down his hand. “Read ‘em.”

“Gods damn it.” She tossed her cards down. “I want to play Go Fish again.”

Those quick, clever fingers of his, took half her pot and all her cards. With a nimble flick the deck went dancing between his hands. “Whatever you want, honey. I know you like the easy games.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He shrugged cheerfully. “Just saying; that one’s all luck.”

“Which is the only way I’m going to win at this point, I’m not ashamed.” He’d already thrashed her at Rummy and Essosi Rat Screw, on top of the bludgeoning he’d just given her in Poker. She had to have _something._

“Sure.” And he dealt them in. “So, not much card playing at the auction house, then?”

“Only between Mr. Baelish and some of our clients. It’s a hundred-grand buy in.”

Jon choked. “ _What?”_

“You heard me.” And she leaned back on her palms to regard him. Broad shoulders. Rough hands. Face weathered by so many years spent outdoors. “If it wasn’t obvious, I don’t get to play much.”

“No shit.” He said, and then faced the floor and mouthed _hundred-grand_ like it’d personally offended him.

Words clamored on the tip of her tongue. She didn’t know if she should say this—she knew that she shouldn’t say it. But Jon made giving these things so easy. “I did get invited once by my boss. Baelish.”

His head rocked up. “And why’d he do that?”

“The usual reasons.” It was strange, but she finally didn’t feel shame for it, just looked Jon in the eye as she answered: “He said a pretty girl like me on his arm would distract them. I could even take one of the gowns on loan to come with; it’d compliment my _figure._ He tried to play it off like a joke when I put it back on him.”

“Fucking asshole.” Jon snarled. “How in the hells is he getting away with that?”

She shrugged. “He owns the Auction House. You know what the sad thing is? That whole world used to be very old boys club. Buyers, sellers, owners, appraisers. In the last twenty years, Mr. Baelish completely closed the gender-gap on the staffing side with his hiring practices. His training programs are phenomenal—the best in the business. Usually you need a decade in outside work to even break in, and he takes girls right out of college.”

He rubbed a hand up his face. “Bloody fuck.”

“Hmmmm.” And it was her turn to hum. “You know, I asked Ros—she does mosaics there, walls and pottery. She was my training mentor, and I asked—what do I have to do to get Mr. Baelish to back off? And do you know what she asked me?”

He looked appalled. “What?”

“When do you turn thirty?”

It’s something they laugh about at work because it’s easier to do than cry. Nervous giggling. Pointed glances. The older woman on staff always finding it in themselves to wander into the inspection rooms with junior trainees, when Mr. Baelish came to visit.

It should have been a red flag that she met Joffrey through him. It should have told her something.

They’d laughed about it at work, but Jon didn’t laugh. “Has he hurt you?”

“No.” Managed to make her uncomfortable a few times, though. But Ros had done her level best to hover like a vulture anytime the man was in the building, and that had spared her more than most. “There are enough of us that he doesn’t pay attention to one girl for too long. And honestly—what am I supposed to do? I haven’t even worked there three years. None of the other Houses would hire someone with as little experience as I’ve got but Mockingbird. And don’t even get me started on museums or curatorships or academia—that lot are absolutely cutthroat. You need at least fifteen years and a doctorate before they even _look_ at you.” And she realized her hands were wringing. “I love the rest of the job. I do, it’s just—"

“Sansa.” He said, pained, and she felt her stomach plummet.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned this. It’s depressing.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He returned, as solid as the mountains outside.

“I shouldn’t have—"

“At the Wall—” Jon stumbled over it, and it was so tentative that she hushed herself up. “During Camp—training.” He viciously cut it off. “Some of our superiors there were complete fuckheads. You wouldn’t believe the sexist, homophobic shit they said to some of the trainees. We tried to look out for each other, but a couple of them got it bad. My friend Sam—Thorne used to call him Miss Piggy in front of everybody, and that was him being _nice._ You don’t want to know what he called Satin. I tried to help where I could, but.” He looked away from her. A hand scrubbed at his mouth, and he looked so terribly lost when he finished: “Sorry.”

“No.” She whispered. “Thank you. It’s…hard, especially when you feel like you’re alone.”

“Yeah.” But his gaze stayed shuttered. “It was always a shitshow up there. Good old boys—it was their way or no way at all.” And one of his arms curled around his gut. “They’re still fighting the same wars they were a hundred years ago. I don’t know what we were actually helping up there.”

“That’s what those types of men are like.” She agreed. “ _Awful_.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Uh-huh.” And he rubbed fitfully at his knees before he looked to her. “Joke was on them, though. No girls up there—you should have seen some of the things guys got up to in the barracks. Anybody that could date in-house, did, no matter what those assholes said. So.” His next hand gesture was flippant.

“Did you?” She blurted.

And he paused. “What?”

Damn it. She shouldn’t have said anything, she shouldn’t have, but—she bit her lip. “Date in house?”

This time he laughed loudly. Openly. “Gods, no. But Satin did try. He always called me _tragically straight_ and then made this face.” He made a comically forlorn face. The pout really sold it. It also made her want to pucker-up and put her lips on that plush bit of real estate.

She covered her mouth. Merciful gods. “That poor thing.”

His gaze latched to hers. Winter. Iron. Smoke before _flame._ His eyes darted across her face as if to search it, and her heart went into her throat. Maybe…?

The heat of him wouldn’t abate. “I’ll have to tell Satin someone finally agreed with him.”

“That _wasn’t_ an agreement.”

He leaned up. “It wasn’t, huh?”

Maybe…?

The winds were howling again, louder. Ghost raised his head and joined them. Jon’s head rose, too. Louder. _Louder._

“Fuck!” Jon lunged for her. He grabbed the mattress that Lady wasn’t on, pushed her flat beneath his bulk, then pulled the mattress over them both as—

A massive weight struck the house _broadside_. Wood splintered. Buckled. Glass shattered overhead. A high-pitched whistling rolled through the walls. The winds hammered, _hammered—_ and then squalled away.

The ceiling didn’t come down. Jon waited one moment, two, then put one knee between her legs and another aside her thigh and levered the mattress up. His voice was a whip crack. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, then realized he wasn’t looking at her. She squeaked: “No.”

The whistling kept coming. Jon’s eyes stayed fixed above.

“I think we lost a window upstairs—maybe a wall. Fuck. Sansa, get our coats. Boots. Gloves. Go!”

She scrambled at his order, then heard Lady whimpering and struggling behind her. She couldn’t stop. Adrenaline ignited, and the pain spiraled away. She ran to the gear room. Hats, coats, boots, pants, gloves. Upstairs, the wind whipped like a death rattle through the halls. She sprinted back and met Lady halfway. The dog yelped and scrambled to follow her.

“Lady, stay!”

They couldn’t _wait._ Jon wasn’t in the study. She took the stairs two at a time and found Jon gripping that handle of a closed door on the second floor. There was snow dusted on the floor between his bare feet. “I think it’s just the bunkroom. Two windows, maybe a bit of the outer wall, but the paneling and studs are holding. Rest of the rooms are intact. Get dressed—I’m going to need your help.”

She did as ordered. Jon took his boots from her, pulled them on, and then flew back down the stairs. He came back with a tool chest. A pack of tarps. Downstairs again. One plywood board up. Two.

He grabbed the tarps and ripped the pack open. He took a roll of duct tape and jammed it over her wrist. “Goggles, gloves. And watch for glass. Fuck—I should have taped the windows.” His eyes squeezed shut and then opened them. “There’s at least part of a branch in there. A tree hit us. I’m going to chuck that out the window, then hold the tarp over each. You start taping. The winds are going to be brutal, so put a fuckload down. If the storm starts getting loud again, we get out of there. Got it? I don’t care if we need to start over.”

Her heart was pounding. “And after the tarps?”

“I’ll tell you back out here. We need to be quick. Watch the glass.”

She nodded and mirrored him when he pulled up his mask. Somewhere at the bottom of the stairs, the dogs were barking.

Jon held her gaze through their goggles. He nodded. “One. Two. _Three.”_ And slammed the door.

Ice lashed against her goggles. The room was dim; half fogged by the snow billowing through the shattered windows. Each gaped open like a ravaged mouth; achingly open into the belly of a beast.

A lamp had toppled—more broken glass. One set of shutters had torn away. The other set had twisted into the room and broken, a solid inch of wood bent near in half. The wind buffeted, her but she forced herself forward and then squeezed to a wall so Jon wouldn’t catch her with the shutters as he tossed them. And gods, it looked more like a small tree in here than a branch. It was pine; needles scattered everywhere and scratching at their legs.

She barely heard Jon’s grunt as he forced the branch up and out. The outer wall shuddered as the tree against it resettled. He tensed. So did she. He watched the windows a long moment and then yanked out a tarp. “Come on!” And his shout was nearly lost to the howl.

What followed was one of the most frustrating exercises of her life. It could have been ten minutes. It could have been ten hours. The wind kept nearly taking the tarp; whipping it upwards and sideways and twisting it on itself. It was only Jon’s tenacity and her being quick on the tape that saw them through.

They did one window, two. Glass crackled under their boots.

Jon grabbed for her arm, caught it, and then had to struggle to get the door back open to the hall. He managed it with two hands and then yanked her through behind him.

The door slammed shut and nearly forced her off her feet. The quiet of the hall inside was unearthly.

“You did good.” Jon panted.

She couldn’t get enough breath into her lungs to thank him for the compliment.

“That’s not going to hold long. You any good with a hammer and nails?” He asked.

Her ribs strained hard, but she decided: “I’ll manage.”

“Okay, I’ll hold the boards up, and you nail ‘em in.”

“Into the _frames?”_

He shrugged. Well, damn.

“Alright.” She answered grimly. “Let’s do it.”  
  


/~/~/~/

The winds started pulling down by two o’ clock. By three, it was as if the storm had never come, if not for the damage outside. He went out first, kicking away the snow drifted into their doorway before checking the windows. He made sure all was well before he started pulling the shutters.

Every opening sent pale light spilling into the house.

“Sansa!”

Her head popped up on the other side of the glass. She grinned. “Good?”

“Good! C’mon.”

She hadn’t taken off her gear since the windows shattered, and neither had he. Within moments, she was out the door and ushering the dogs out. They sprinted to the nearest snowdrift to relieve themselves. Lady barely made it off the porch.

“Poor dears.”

He grunted. One of the lock bars had dented in. Had something hit it?

“Jon, the trees.”

“I know.” He didn’t want to think on it yet. He remembered taking branches down on one of the passes two days ago—had it only been two days? All of that, and the effort itself had likely been futile. The trees themselves probably weren’t even…

He could hear Sansa continuing to gasp behind him. Entire treetops had snapped off. Huge, hundred-year-old trunks had been forced flat to the ground.

“I’m going to see what hit the house.” Sansa declared before disappearing around the side. He went to the next set of shutters. He’d just gotten them open and onto the next, when Sansa shouted: “JON!”

He bolted. The dogs, even Lady, sprinted out ahead of him.

He saw Sansa first, hair a red beacon even peaking from under her hat. Fuck, it _had_ been a big tree that’d nailed them, but she wasn’t looking at it. She was looking at him, hand clapped over her mouth. He ran to her and grabbed her by the sides, but she just pointed a shaking hand up the mountain.

He turned.

There were more pines. _Old_ pines. Torn up by the roots and scattered like kindling up the incline. But one had—it’d hit right in the middle of the solar panels. He could see black glass shattered and spilling like a river down the field.

“Oh, fuck _me_.”

“Jon.” Sansa asked. “Are we in trouble?”

“No—no” He gripped her tighter, then cupped her jaw through his glove. “Hey, you’re heading to Strongsong tomorrow, alright? I’ve just got…” He didn’t even know. “Some very long weeks ahead of me.”

He felt her nod, then very carefully did not yank his hand away. He lowered it gently and tried to pretend he hadn’t just fucked up; that he hadn’t wanted to keep his hand there just a little longer.

The wreckage beckoned again. No radio, no satellite. A third (half?) of the solar panels gone. Two windows broken and boarded up. The outer wall of the house warped to the naked eye. Trees shattered and torn down by the hundreds around them. Him, her. A dog with a broken leg. That shit with the Troopers still down in the valleys.

_When it rains, it pours. Do you remember?_

“Sansa, do me a favor. Could you go count the solar panels? The ones that look intact.”

She nodded quickly. “Of course.”

“Take Ghost but leave Lady. We don’t need her hurting another leg.”

“Okay.” She agreed, and she gave the commands for Lady to stay, while he gave Ghost the commands to go. They split off. He flung the rest of the shutters open on the ground floor and knew the rest could keep.

Lady followed him, snuffling and looking despondently over her shoulder every third step. He didn’t know if it was for Ghost or Sansa. He knew when _he_ looked, that it was for Sansa. Gods above and damn him _twice._

He knelt down when the windows were done; got Lady sitting and ran his gloved hands through her fur. She didn’t even much glare at him either. Progress.

“You’re alright, hmmmm? That’s a good girl.”

Her ears twitched just a smidgen. He couldn’t quite manage a grin, but it was somewhere in him. “That’s right, _you_. Now be good for me and protect the house. Alright? That’s my girl.”

At that, Lady planted herself smackdab in front of the porch, poise regal and ears alert.

He left her there and struck out. The drifts were strange, smooth and rippled like Valyrian steel. High winds and no cover from them, and it’d left a bone white desert that was frozen to the hilt. He found the radio antenna by the indent it left in the waves. It was ninety feet away from the house and twisted like a bird’s nest. No salvaging it.

He backtracked. The weather instrumentation had shattered into such small pieces, that most of it floated above the drifts. The antenna had been in a dip just enough that the winds couldn’t smooth its impact over. It was a lighter thing, which probably meant that…

He kicked through the drifts backwards until he hit the satellite dish with a steel-toe. He kicked the snow away. It was cracked in half. “Fuck.”

Sansa was waiting for him at the house, petting Lady’s head as the dog pressed against her leg. Ghost was huddled against her other side and quickly received the same attention. “Twenty-six.” She told him, and it took all his willpower not to curse in front of her.

Twenty-six. Mother Maiden Father _Crone_. They’d started with nearly fifty. So that was what, a little over half left now? Half a day’s power and no reserve. They wouldn’t need the computer now, so that could be chucked from the equation. No satellite. No radios to run. Lights—they’d have to cut down on lights, maybe go to candles entirely. Both fridges had to stay running of course, and the water pumps and heater too. The laundry would be dicey. But the heating…damn it all. The heating was where they were stuck. The heating system made the house bearable, but the fireplaces made a room truly warm.

They had the generators though. Diesel. But those were only meant as a supplement when they had a few to many cloudy days in a row. They had three months’ supply diesel, but if they were running the generators full time—they had roughly a months’ supply. Less.

Maybe if they shut away the whole top floor, and just kept the fireplaces plus the wood stove burning, along with the heating downstairs…?

“Jon?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Are you okay?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking logistics. Do you have the Sat-phone?”

She lifted her bag and patted it.

Right. “Then get the dogs back in—we need to take a ride.”

/~/~/~/

The destruction wouldn’t stop. Sansa gasped behind him as they came around another bend. Trees were shattered again; their trunks forced up like daggers against the sky. He swung wide and made a careful negotiation of the branches. It was endless, and with the height they were gaining, they could see more of what laid down in the valleys.

Trees had been flattened in swaths; pale as the underbellies of dead fish left floating in the water. It stretched so far. He’d thought they’d gotten hit hard at North Base. He was starting to realize they’d missed the worst of it.

He reached down again; gripped one of Sansa’s wrists where her arms were wrapped around his torso. He squeezed once then regripped the handles of the snowmobile.

She squeezed back. Her breath came sharply on his neck. “Jon, look.”

There was a ravine black and jagged below them. Trees were toppled from one end to the other. It never _stopped_. The scale was beginning to make his heart hurt. It was going to take years to get all the roads and passes back open; decades for any regrowth to even replace the forests they’d lost.

How had this _happened?_

“I see it.” He affirmed, and Sansa laid her helmet back between his shoulder blades. It was a momentary comfort.

Truth was, he was having trouble orienting himself. The winds had whipped the snows all over and the rocks he usually marked-by were buried. And the trees? No luck there. Finally, they came to what he thought was a familiar clearing. “Sansa, phone.”

Helmets came off. For the third time, they checked the phone, and it seemed like the third time was the charm. They had signal.

He dialed. It rang out. He dialed again. This time, the line picked up on the last ring. “ _Yeah_?”

It was hard to tell through the static. “Vardis?”

“Borrel.” The man on the other end grunted, and what the fuck was Godric Borrel doing on the comms? The man was retired—had been before Jon even joined the VFS. Still, the man didn’t suffer fools lightly, so Jon buckled down and rattled off his report. Radio, satellite, house. Trees, storm conditions, snow.

“Are you in any immediate danger of getting dead, Ranger?”

“No.” Jon answered, bewildered.

“And that tourist you’ve got up there with you?”

“She’s fine, what’s going on?”

“Sixty percent of the Vale is without power right now. Water towers were punctured. Phone lines are down anywhere above the base of the mountains. We’ve got two separate towns that have been completely cut off that we’re trying to ferry supplies to. We have no idea how many people out in their cabins are up shitcreek without a paddle right now. A bloody hospital down in Redfort had half its windows blown in. I’ll tell you what I’m telling every other outpost—shore up what you can and sit tight for orders. Check-ins are currently set for every other day, or immediately if there’s trouble, understand?”

Holy Mother on earth. “Understood.”

“Fine. If that’s all—”

“Wait! Have you heard anything about Strongsong?”

“No, Snow. Now get the fuck off the line.” And the call severed.

He pulled the phone down and pressed it hard to his leg. Sansa was still clinging onto him and saying nothing at all. If they hadn’t heard anything about Strongsong, that was probably good news. It was hard to lose an entire town without anyone noticing. And it sounded like this might have slammed harder south than in the north, so…

Sansa clung tighter. It brought him down like a tether. “I think we’re still good for tomorrow, but I’m not getting a resupply anytime soon.”

She sounded stricken. “Will you be okay?”

“I’ve got three months food, and enough firewood to last me a decade. I might not be comfortable, but I’ll be fine.” And he twisted his head around. “I once spent eight months living outside. I can do it again.”

 _“What?”_ She gasped. “That can’t be true.”

She was worked-up and worried over him, and he liked both far too much. “It is. Anti-poaching assignment. I ate tree bark.”

Her jaw dropped. For the first time since they’d stepped out after the storm, he laughed. It made things easier, even if it didn’t last. “Here, call whoever you need. We don’t have much daylight.” The shadows were already growing longer. The light was going smoky, then blue. Soon it’d be purple, and then it’d be black.

Nothing on earth would make him take her anywhere in the dark.

To his immense disappointment, she clamored off the back of snowmobile and into the drifts. He pretended not to be paying attention as her voice echoed through the clearing.

“Arya, hey. Are you guys doing okay up there? With the storm?”

“No—of course I care. Holy Stranger, Arya.”

“I’m listening. Look…I need a favor. No—no, not that kind of favor. Listen to me. I was coming up to see you when I got caught in the storm, and I…I got in a bit of a crash, so—”

“Yes, I’m okay! Just a little bruised—no Arya, it’s fine! Can you just come get me and Lady in Strongsong? Then down to a car rental? Please.”

“It’s…yes, I understand it’s short notice. But I really need the help. If you don’t come, I’ll miss work on Monday, _please.”_

“…I’ll explain more when you get here. I promise. The guy dropping me off—he said it’d take three hours for us to get there. So, nineish, if you could? I _know_ it’s early. Who drove you to fencing all of Freshman year? You can get up early for me at least this once.”

“What guy am I…? Gods damn it, Arya! I’m not doing—that’s none of your business!”

“Yeah. Yeah. I understand. See you then.”

The phone clicked off. He looked up. She was staring down at it and he couldn’t read her face. Sadness, something else. He wanted to take her into his arms and push it all away, but—

She was gone tomorrow. No use breaking his heart any further.

“You good?”

Her breath fogged white. She pulled her mask back up. “I’m good.” And then got back onto the snowmobile and put her arms around him.

/~/~/~/

The gloaming was on their heels when they got back to the house. As much as she’d enjoyed getting to cling to Ranger Snow’s back for a solid hour, she was getting tired. The pain had washed back in, and new exhaustion with it. It wasn’t even six yet, but she was fully ready to crash.

And Jon…he’d gone so quiet on the ascent. She thought he was telling her everything, but she wondered at it now. Something was eating him up and she couldn’t draw a bead on it.

But maybe it wasn’t her business to know.

They kicked off their boots and gear inside. She didn’t even get to enjoy getting to watch him strip, tired as she was. Even seeing a flash of his bare back didn’t rouse her, and he yanked his shirt back down quick.

It was a sad state of affairs: too exhausted to even lust properly.

Jon led her into the kitchen and pointed to a chair. “Sit.”

He’d been ordering her around a lot today. She wasn’t quite sure that she liked it. Maybe if there’d been a bedroom involved…?

“We had a talk about manners, didn’t we?”

He rolled his eyes. “Sit, _please.”_

“Certainly.”

His expression turned aggrieved. It was better than whatever it’d been before. He got out two packs of something wrapped in silver. Powdered milk. Sugar. They were probably having coffee. She wasn’t sure she wanted it; sleep seemed a better option.

She rested her head down onto her arms. Lady shuffled under the table—banged her back against it—then put her chin on Sansa’s knee. Sansa went petting absently at her dog and drifted away. Jon was chopping something on a cutting board. There was a gentle clatter of pans on the stove.

When the smell hit her, she came upright. “Is that _chocolate?”_

He was pouring a pan of steaming milk into a darker one. “Hot chocolate.”

“Oh my gods.” She nearly professed true love—or something akin to it—then and there. Her hands turned grabby.

“In a minute, hold your horses.”

She stuck out her bottom lip. His eyes seemed to stall on it, then flitted away. He mixed. Got mugs ready. Poured. Her heart was filled with nothing but lust and avarice. She wasn’t sure to whom it was even aimed—Jon, the mug, both at once?

He got down a bottle from the cabinets. It was glass. Amber. It sloshed when he shook it. “Medicinal purposes only.”

She shouldn’t. She couldn’t. “One shot.”

“You got it.” And he poured a shot of bourbon straight into her mug. He gave himself a double.

He handed hers over and sat at the table. Carefully, nearly reverently, they both took a sip. They both _moaned._

“Oh, fuck.” She breathed. “I needed that.” The moment that chocolate and bourbon had curled on her tongue, her eyes had fluttered shut. Pure bliss: scalp to toes.

Her eyelids came up slowly, and Jon’s eyes were already on hers. They were black. “Too right.”

Another hot flush passed through her. Bourbon, melted chocolate, something _dark_.

But she was so very tired and terribly bruised. And she had to be—had to be misreading this. He couldn’t be looking at her like that, with the state she was in now: bruised and sweaty and helmet-hair all askew.

But she didn’t look away, either.

They drank together, slow and steady as the night fell on them. Jon made them a second mug apiece. She felt tipsy, which was strange off two shots. She told him as much.

“Probably the altitude for you, and for me—I haven’t eaten.” He blinked rapidly, then surged up and shoved a bagel into the toaster. “Fuck, I’m not feedin’ you right.”

“You’re feeding me fine.”

He grumbled something unintelligible, then brought schmear to the table and half a perfectly crisped bagel.

She perked up. “You’re a good cook. That’s a good thing in a man. A green flag.”

His butter knife skittered off. “A green what?”

“Green flag. Opposite of red flag. Man who cooks for himself and cooks well—doesn’t expect others to wait on him. It’s rarer than you think.”

“Have to.” He answered. “Wouldn’t get anything otherwise. As a kid—” It splintered off.

“Yeah?”

He shrugged jerkily. “Bounced around my family a lot. Had to fend for myself if I wanted things. Wasn’t bad or nothing—always had a roof overhead and food in the fridge—but they were always busy. Had to take me on; it wasn’t their fault.”

Her brain clicked over. Concentrated. She couldn’t fuck this up. Not this, not _him._ “I have four siblings and whatever Theon is. There was a lot of shuffle when I was a kid, with all of us there. After I went to college…they forgot me, sometimes.”

He stopped mid-sip. “They—shit, really? That’s fucking rough. It’s always rough. What did they…?”

“I was having trouble with…I honestly don’t remember. But I was struggling. I asked my dad to come down, if he could see me for just a little bit. But when that weekend came…he didn’t show.”

Jon growled. “And where the fuck was he?”

“At some fencing match for my sister. He just…forgot.” She took a pull of her mug. The bourbon numbed through. “Never said anything to him about it, and he never said anything to me. I don’t think he’s ever realized. So…I don’t know if I get it, having to move around families, but—”

He reached over and laced one hand through hers. Didn’t say anything, after that, but he didn’t have to. His understanding was enough.

Maybe hers would be, too.

She wanted to lighten this mood between them. “At home, if I wanted cheesy toast, I had to make it myself. Then I’d fight off the others with a butter knife—it was very serious business.”

Jon groaned. “Cheesy toast. Gods, why didn’t I think of that?”

“I’ll make it for you tomorrow.”

His eyes went bright. “Really?”

“Yeah.” And she wanted to pet at his face. “Before I leave.”

His expression dropped. “Damn.”

Her heart dropped too. “What?”

“Who else is gonna cut up my apples like flowers, or make me cheesy toast after you go? Ghost?”

She snorted. “I’d love to see that.”

“I’m sure you would.” And he sighed dejectedly. “Ah, well. If you have to work. I understand.”

It was too much. Too good. Too close. “I’ll miss you.” Too _easy._

He stilled. “Will you?”

“Of course. Jon…you came for me when I needed it, and you’ve been so good to me after. I haven’t had that very much.”

“You should.” His hand spasmed on hers. “And I always will, Sansa.”

Words clogged in her throat. Tears. It had to be the bourbon; her and him, and these things that they were saying. But she still squeezed back.

He set down his mug. “If you’re leaving, there’s one last thing I’ve got to show you. Once in a lifetime.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Gear on.”

“But I’m _tired.”_

“Trust me,” He promised. “This is worth it.”

She did trust him, so she put on her gear, gathered the dogs, and followed him into the dark. The first breath outside was so cold it scoured the air from her lungs.

The second breath siphoned the very pain from her body.

Jon pulled her into the pale-moon glitter of the snow. Limned blue. Black. The moon was a sickle when she tipped her head up.

Above laid a needlepoint stitched in light. Radiance. Stardust. The divine road stretching on and on and on. Hundreds. Thousands. _Millions_. Stars so distant, they scattered like dust in the dark.

The sky had been cracked open. The universe laid bare.

Stars. Planets. Weaving and turning, and brighter than any beauty that could be named. There were no stars in King’s Landing; no heavens sewn from cosmic glow.

“Oh, _Jon_.”

“I know,” He rasped. “Nothing like it in the world.”

And when she looked at him, to see the stars reflected in his eyes—

He was already looking at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no higher romance than stargazing. NONE.
> 
> Meanwhile, yeah, sucky bosses gonna suck. Lookin' at you, Baelish and Thorne. ಠ_ಠ Get rekt.
> 
> But lol, I want you all to know that Satin Flowers cut a swathe through the Night's Watch. Though tragically, he was never able to do more than flirt uselessly/be besties with Jon. But hey, that ain't a bad gig! Jon Snow is goods friends to have (and good to stare slack-jawed at).
> 
> To anyone who disagrees with my characterization of Ned, he killed Lady and then literally never spoke to Sansa nor comforted her over it. Furthermore, in the books when the Lannisters started being dangerous, he had all the time in the world to explain things to Arya, but couldn't be fucked to say a word to Sansa. To every child not named Arya, Ned was a shit and absent dad, and I'm carrying that through here. If anyone wants to fuss about this, you're not changing my mind. My story, my characterization. The Starks love each other, but they ain't perfect.
> 
> Now, next time: some backstory finally spills, Ghost and Lady's romance continues to be thwarted, and Jon takes Sansa to Strongsong...
> 
> (Health update: I probably can't say ER without elaborating, huh. My legs started developing petechiae on Friday, which is apparently bad if you have familial stroke history and have been suffering a lung virus for nigh on 5 weeks. Petechiae is the veins leaking into the skin, which had my legs looking like i'd suddenly developed bloody freckles. So off to the ER I went. Unfortunately the ER docs couldn't find out why this was happening, but as nothing looked like it was about to kill me, they sent me back home at about 3am. Good news, I don't have a viral load anymore...so that's nice. And my veins stopped leaking yesterday. Also nice. Bad news, wtf is happening remains unclear as always. Sigh. To anyone who'd like to tell me what they liked in the chapter and say nice things, I'd appreciate it.)


	7. Terrain Trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see, three notes on this one:
> 
> 1) Joffrey is a Lannister here. Jaime is Tywin's son, Cersei is a Lannister cousin, and the two fell torridly in love and got married. It's still an unhealthy relationship though.
> 
> 2) I am choosing a more amiable characterization for a certain someone who is normally awful in canon/most fic. You'll know who I mean once you get there.
> 
> 3) A rescue sled/rescue trailer is an enclosed motorless vehicle that is usually pulled behind a snowmobile. They're used to get into more harsh/dangerous terrain to pick up lost folk when other methods aren't available. Some even have batteries and their own heating systems inside.
> 
> Also, warnings for mentions of violent assaults in this chapter. Not as bad as the books, but still up there.

He woke her in the dark. “C’mon, up and at ‘em.”

She ached dully. “No.”

“You promised me cheesy toast.”

“ _Ugh.”_ She never should have taken that second shot of bourbon. Because goddsdamn, even sober, did she desperately want to make this man toast. See him smile. Laugh. Well, laugh even more—they’d done that plenty last night while stumbling out of their gear and flopping drunkenly to the mattresses.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Feed the dogs for me?”

Her eyes scrunched open. “If you insist.”

“I’m not the only one.” He answered, and then Lady was snuffling at her elbow and Ghost was breathing directly onto her face. She squealed and rolled over, but by then, Jon was out of the room and not there to hear it.

The dogs whined. She sighed despairingly. “Only because I _love you_.”

With both dogs on heel, she headed to the bathroom to set herself to rights. Once her ablutions were complete—and she’d separated Ghost from Lady two more times to much doggy grumbling—it was onwards to the kitchen. Ghost had his food poured into his dish. Lady got hers out of a repurposed mixing bowl, and then a bit more peanut butter in some crackers for her pain pill.

Lady took both with relish. Ghost was so jealous of the extra treat, that Sansa had to put a second set together sans pill to stop his outraged tapdancing.

A warm kitchen, and dogs whining over any bit of favoritism. It felt like being home.

Except home had never been this easy.

The cheesy bread, soon to become cheesy toast, was just under the broiler when headlights swept over the back of the house. An engine growled, then quieted. The lights faded. A minute later, Jon was kicking his boots clean in the gear room and coming through. His grin was crooked. “Yeah?”

“Almost,” She cautioned. “You can’t rush cheesy toast.”

“Course not.” And he slipped behind her only to pause in the blind spot at her back. It was just for a moment, but it was a moment spent imagining him wrapping an arm around her waist. Pressing a kiss to her neck. Holding her _tight_.

He moved away, and she breathed out shakily. Gods _preserve_ her.

They ate their toast with Jon groaning at an inappropriate volume that put a flush in her cheeks. He had to be doing it purely to flatter her, but still. It was appreciated. She could do with a little flattery after the week she’d just suffered.

“You packed up yet?”

Damn it all. “No.”

“I’ll get the coffee squared if you wanna do that. Sun’ll be up soon.”

She felt something near to disappointment. It’d barely been a few days, but it already felt strange to leave here. She’d miss it. The house, the mountains, Ghost. She’d miss—

It couldn’t be borne. “Thank you.”

His mouth didn’t twitch, but the crow’s feet at his eyes crinkled deep.

There wasn’t much for her to do once she set to packing. Get her purse together, grab Lady’s blanket, stuff everything into a backpack, pull down her clothes that had dried by the fire. Trade them out; take Jon’s clothes off and put her own back on.

It went quick.

The fire was low, and she lingered by it to steal what last bits of warmth were left. Jon was still in the kitchen. The coffee was on a slow bubble. The dogs were rooting around in their bowls.

She pressed his sweater to her face one last time, breathed it.

The evergreen had faded.

She sighed quietly and folded it to set aside. It made such a small pile, neat, but it didn’t feel like she’d get her own heart back so neatly. It was a travesty that Jon Snow lived so far away, up in these mountains. He might as well have been on another planet for the distance that would soon be between them.

If she’d met him in King’s Landing…

But that was a dream not even she could bear. There was no _use_ to it. Life sometimes was only a series of small disappointments, and hoping for more only delivered more pain. Of all the injuries she’d self-inflicted, this wouldn’t be one of them.

She returned to the kitchen quietly, but Jon turned as soon as she crossed the threshold. “All set?”

“Yes. Did I ever thank you for grabbing my purse?”

He shrugged artlessly, seemingly indifferent, and took a pull off his mug.

He wouldn’t get away that easy. “Thank you, Ranger Snow.”

And those crow’s feet went deep again. “You’re welcome, Sansa.” And gods help her _._

“I see you lot can learn some new tricks after all.” She answered haughtily, then sailed across the room to accept her own mug directly from his hand.

“Don’t be so sure,” He smirked. “ _Us lot_ are known to go feral from time to time.”

“If you’re going to bring up eating bark again, I’m no longer impressed.”

He scratched at his beard. “There was that one time with the raw fish, though.”

She nearly spat out her coffee.

The windows were no longer black. Dark yet, but some distant glow was skimming up the peaks. Beside her, Jon’s knuckles flexed on his mug. “We have about fifteen minutes, then we need to go.” And he took another sharp sip. Halted, said: “Sansa.”

And her stomach sank. “What is it?”

His nails went digging into his neck. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you about. I’m sorry—I would have done it sooner, but it’s been hectic.”

“I know.” She’d been here for every bit of hectic when she hadn’t been unconscious.

“I’m not going to ask you to do anything or not, alright? You can leave it here or go after it, but I’m with you either way.”

It felt like there was a fist in her abdomen. _Squeezing._ At the weight of her silence, he hurried: “Look…there’s no good way to tell this. The search for you got started by the Arryn Troopers. They swore up, down, and sideways that Pine Gate was closed, so they started out of the Bloody and worked their way outwards.”

A shadow of memory stirred. “Shae asked me about that. I swear—the Gate I went through, it had trees on the sign. I didn’t—”

“You went through Piney.” He said, teeth clenched so hard the words nearly broke between them. “I found you North of there, so unless you spent hours going up through the passes…?”

She shook her head. She’d forgotten all about this, between the flare burning like a comet in her fist, and the cold outside, and— “But Pine Gate wasn’t closed.”

“It wasn’t.” He agreed savagely. “The Troopers were lying, or somebody was covering somebody else’s ass. I don’t know what it was. After I talked with Shae, I realized it’d be a fucking needle in the haystack to find you. It was a matter of hours to try and get to where you were, but when I asked for help from the Troopers, those dickheads refused.”

It felt like there was a sunspot in her skull. Eating. Expanding. Blotting out _all_. “…oh.”

His posture turned agitated. “With me finding you, everybody knows now that something was wrong. It’s going to take time to surface again with all the shit going on right now, but it will. I’m putting in my own complaint, but if you wanna do anything else—that’s up to you. You have a leg to stand on here; you could take them to the wringer.”

“I—” Her throat was dry. Her fingers clenched uselessly onto her mug. “Do I have to decide now?”

“No,” And the harshness in his body receded. “You don’t. You’ve got time, yet.”

Time. What time? She ducked her head and felt her guts twist up inside. It was…it was one thing after another, wasn’t it? Things always going from bad to worse. Feeding off each other. Maybe it was her. Maybe it’d always been her.

A hook caught. “How did you find me?”

“What?” He asked.

“You said it was a needle in a haystack, so how…?”

His mouth thinned. “I guessed.”

Her mug was shaking. Coffee was threatening to slosh right onto the floor. Jon’s hands fell over hers and cupped them firmly. “I’m sorry,” He murmured. “It’s shit.”

Her mouth worked—dragged bitterness right over her tongue: “It is.” She still had to get to Arya, hand off Lady, get to KL. It was looking like she’d have to drive through the night to get there. Maybe there’d be enough time to get home; shower and then change into the dark tights and pencil skirts that Mr. Baelish always favored. If she put a good enough face on it, and enough makeup on her face…

She breathed through her nose. Controlled it.

Jon’s skin was rough, and it felt like armor over hers.

But she couldn’t cling to him. “I’ll worry about it later.” And she swallowed hard. “We have to get moving, right?”

“Right.” And his hands fell away. She tried to smile for him; make it something other than brittle.

But the shadow in his eyes was distant. “Gear up.”

/~/~/~/

For a while, the mountains made her forget. The sun sparking and pale off the cliffs. The wind clean in her lungs. The snow glittering on every surface, as ice dripped from the trees like Myrish finery.

Then there were her arms snug around Jon’s middle; the sight of Lady towing behind them in the rescue trailer with her snout pressed at an absurd and upwards angle against the glass.

It had been a bitter parting from Ghost an hour ago. There’d been a great deal of howling from all parties involved, then whining and crying, and then the saddest, droopiest heads imaginable. Sansa had gone to her knees in the snow and pressed all sorts of kisses to Ghost’s head. He’d even sat still to let her hug him, but it hadn’t helped.

She was glad to see Lady’s spirits somewhat recovered. Maybe her baby would forgive her yet.

Seeing her glancing backwards, Lady’s tail began wagging madly. There was a muffled woof that was nearly drowned by the snowmobile’s engine.

Jon’s own muffled voice drifted back. “She doing alright in there?”

That fluffy tail kept swishing. “Having the time of her life, I think.”

They passed another ribbon of shorn trees. Jon negotiated the fallen branches judiciously, then revved the engine back to full. She hugged herself closer to him; put her helmeted head right up next to his and asked: “Is it just me, or is the damage getting worse?”

He responded tersely. “Worse.”

She rocked back down. It was bothering him, she wouldn’t ask twice.

The silence lasted on. They were midway up an alternate route to the top of a ridge, when Jon finally twisted around. “We’re almost halfway. Once we’re over the bridge on Snakewood Pass, it’s a straight shot to Strongsong.”

She squeezed his waist once: message received. He turned back and she couldn’t quite tell what he was feeling. Both of them were in full-faced helmets, each tinted black for snow glare. She couldn’t see his eyes to read him.

“Keep an eye on the trailer.” He instructed. “Tell me if it’s tipping.”

She squeezed again. “Okay.”

She watched for it, but the effort wasn’t needed. Jon’s handling of the snowmobile was expert, and Lady didn’t do more than sway a bit inside the trailer. They cleared the ridge. Light spilled. There was a harsh sound: air sucking in.

She turned to him. “Jon—” And her own breath wrenched.

Every muscle in his back was rigid. “Holy _fuck_.”

Her lashes fluttered like the tremble of a dying moth. Holy gods. Holy _hells._

The trees were down. All of the trees were _down._ Sweeping down the ridges and tumbled over the cliffs; every trunk toppled like a domino one after the other. A massive, shear-faced pass had opened along their right side, and she could see the sweep of the destruction going on and on and _on_ up the other side.

Gods above. An entire swath of the mountain had been scoured.

Jon idled the engine and rose. She released him. He stood on the snowmobile and pivoted. Then, seemingly dumbstruck, he asked her: “Where’s the bridge?”

Her brain reeled. “What?”

“Where’s the…?” And he turned again then leapt right off the snowmobile. The snow was up past his shins as he waded to the edge of the ridge. Within moments of looking, he rushed past her to clamor up a heap of shattered trunks for better vantage.

Nausea writhed. “Jon?”

“I must have…” He yanked off his helmet and did another 360-degree turn. “I must have gotten turned around, or—we must be short of it.”

He jammed his helmet right back on, but it didn’t hide that brief moment—that naked emotion. Confusion. Strain. And something that looked like…

“Hold on.” He told her, and she couldn’t do anything else. The breadth of him between her arms was the only anchor left in the world.

There was something sparking, a glittering edge wavering too brightly in her eyes. Jon kept pushing the snowmobile along the line of the ridge. It was the place where the winds must have fallen straight _down_. Picked up speed, picked up mass, started pushing towards—

The engine slowed again, and Jon rose. Turned. This time she rose as well.

Looked down. Saw.

It was different from the tree trunks, that dark wood shattered on the valley floor. Metal was in there too. Girders. A few hundred feet down the slope of their ridge, she could see the end posts that had once anchored a bridge to this side of the pass. There was little else to see.

The rest had ripped clean away.

It must have tumbled so far. Hundreds and hundreds of feet, and all down into that frozen river carving the valley pass. Only her arms around Jon’s body kept her upright. It didn’t make sense. “The bridge.”

Jon’s breath billowed. “It’s gone.” And then harshly: “ _Shit.”_

“Can we—” She didn’t understand it. “Can we go around?”

“How?” He asked her incredulously.

“By…I don’t know.” And she hunched backwards.

But before she could pull away, Jon grabbed her hands where they were linked over his stomach. “Sit tight, let me think.”

He pulled off his helmet again and grabbed a map. Eyes darted. His jaw worked beneath his skin like rebar.

In her skull her pulse rose like a flood was coming. She took off her own helmet. One minute passed. Two. Five. There was another muffled bark behind them, and Jon took a sucking breath like he’d forgotten he needed oxygen. “Do you have any free-climbing experience?”

The flood kept rising. “We went to indoor rock walls when I was a kid.”

“So, no.” And a tendon strained in his neck. “Any no-tent winter camping? Long range hiking?”

She could only shake her head. The great outdoors had never been anything she’d wanted to experience in great depth. If anything required forgoing indoor plumbing to do it, she’d refused on sheer principle.

“Alright.” He answered calmly, and then twisted in her arms. “Give me the bag.” Obediently, she pulled off the backpack and handed it over. Jon rooted through it and then gave her the Sat-phone. “Call your sister.”

Her lips were numb. “Why?”

“Sansa, I can’t get you Strongsong. I’m sorry.”

“But…” White noise cluttered up inside her. “Can’t we just go another way?”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. Quavered. “Any out-trip by snowmobile right now would take two days—probably three with how fucked it is. Those routes are too harsh for the trailer. With her leg, Lady can’t make a hike right now. I can’t pen the dogs up outside in these conditions, and we can’t shut them up in the house for a week. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She did.

She didn’t.

He scraped his hands over his skull. “Fuck it—look. Number one rule in this job is to never make a bad situation worse. I don’t know what the conditions are out there. What if we get stranded? What if the routes are impassable? What if I get you there, but I get stuck on the way back and the dogs starve to death? I can’t risk any of you on a _maybe.”_

There was a lump in her throat. She was trying to swallow it, and it tore through like a barb. “How long are we stuck?”

He just shook his head. “I don’t know. There are at least two towns cut-off and a hospital blown in. We are so low on the priority-list right now, I’m not even sure we’re on it. We’re in the Alpine Reserve; people don’t _live_ here. No one’s going to be plowing out these roads for a long damn time. Until we can get someone up here with a helicopter to give us the lay of the land—” His eyes tore away from hers and fixed on some distant point. “One week. Two. I honestly can’t tell you.”

“Jon,” The world was blurring. “I’m going to lose my job.”

“I’m sorry.” He said, and looked so fucking miserable, it only made the tears come harder. “Sansa.” He murmured, and then he was fully turned around and pulling her into his arms.

She bit down on the sob so hard that her teeth ached. She couldn’t do this in front of him, she _couldn’t._ Her throat trembled, and she gripped his side hard. “I need to call my sister. Please.”

He released her. “Okay.”

She couldn’t bear to see what was in his eyes. No point in Arya coming up here. No point in rushing home. Her mind was turning, turning, eating itself. There was no way Mr. Baelish would let her skate for weeks. Not without—

She fled the snowmobile to a far tree trunk. Sat; dialed Arya’s number from memory.

“ _What up?”_ Her sister answered.

She had to force it out. “You can turn around and go home. I’m sorry, it looks like I’m stranded up here.”

“ _Stranded?”_ Arya’s pitch rose. “ _What the fuck does that mean?”_

“The windstorm tore out a bridge. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and that was the only easy way back. The Ranger won’t take me anywhere until we have a better idea of things.”

“ _Well that’s absolute balls._ _I guess I bullied Lommy into driving me for nothing.”_

“ _Hey!”_ A more distant voice squawked.

“Yeah.” She said absently. “Sorry.”

 _“Sucks to suck.”_ Arya agreed. “ _You tell mom and dad yet you’re having an unscheduled vacation?”_

She didn’t want to. Silly, stupid Sansa not able to take care of herself. Stupid choices. Stupid _girl._ Only air in her head, and all that fussy nonsense she liked to do in the South.

She’d heard it before. “Do me a favor and tell them? Also—could you call Uncle Edmure? He has an extra set of my keys, ask him if one of his kids can go down and empty the fridge out. Make sure everything’s okay.”

 _“Ugh.”_ Arya said. “ _Put it all on me, why dontcha. But yeah, sure. Parents. Edmure. No burning down. Got it.”_

She wiped a gloved palm uselessly down her leg. “Thank you.”

“ _Probably for the best.”_ Arya concurred, and Sansa felt her teeth clench. “ _We’ve been on the road an hour, and we haven’t even gotten halfway. It’s all fucky soon as you get to the mountain base—traffic’s backed up for miles. Honestly, I’m not sure we could have gotten up there.”_

Her jaw unlatched. “Well, you’re free to go home now. I’ll call you when I know more.”

“ _Sure. Enjoy the mountains, Sans.”_ And the call dropped.

She sat there and breathed until her heart rate came down. Somewhere behind her, she could hear Jon murmuring to Lady and them moving around together in the snow.

“Atta girl.” Jon said, and her chest hurt like it’d been bludgeoned in.

She dialed the main line to Mockingbird by memory as well. The receptionist picked up on the third ring and transferred her through. The office line rang a near dozen times until: “ _Mosaics and Pottery, how may I help you?_ ”

“Ros, it’s Sansa.”

“ _Sansa, hi, are you feeling better_?”

Lies and disappointment, that’s all she was. “Yes—no. Ros, I need help.” And for the next ten minutes she explained the situation in halting detail: family emergency, the car crash, the rescue, the stranding.

“ _Oh, girl_.” And Ros sighed so deeply. “ _You know there’s only one way out of this. Even if Littlefinger doesn’t figure out you faked your sick days, he’s only letting you keep your job one way_.”

“But it’s only for a few weeks.” She said plaintively.

Ros’s nails clattered near the receiver. “ _Look, let’s make it plain right now, alright? Can you sleep with Baelish to keep your job?”_

Sansa hugged her left arm around herself. Felt her ribs expand. Contract. Expand. “I don’t want to.”

“ _Most don’t_. _”_ Ros agreed. “ _You should take the day and think about it. If yes, you’ll be welcomed back with open arms. If no, call me, and I’ll submit a resignation letter for you on Monday. A clean break is the best option. You could work in this sector again in a few years; he doesn’t blackball over quitting.”_

But every bit of it tasted sour. “This is all so illegal. What if I—”

“ _Don’t, just don’t. Trying_ _to renege or going to HR_ _isn’t going to win you anything._ _You could try a lawsuit if you want, but…this happened before your time. There was this girl from Lys who used to work here over in Tapestries. She had some family issues going on, was crying all the time. She didn’t call into work for three days because of some emergency with them. Baelish gave her the Option instead of firing her, and she came back to work. But she didn’t go through with fucking him. Far as I know, she can’t even get a job teaching history at a community college, now. There was a lawsuit, but he trotted out all the girls to say she was a bad worker and skipped shifts a lot, and then sing his praises.”_

Sansa knew how this ended; she didn’t need it explained. “Fuck.”

“ _Agreed.”_ Ros sighed. “ _But if you quit, I’ll write you a letter of recommendation. Cass and Bella will too, alright? Think about it. Call me—and take care of yourself.”_

“Yeah, I…yeah.” She swallowed tremulously. “I will. Thank you.”

“ _I wish I had better for you.”_ And then the line pulled away.

Sansa let her arms fall and the phone tumble into her lap. She put her head into her hands and felt her mind _spin._ Everything she’d built, everything she’d achieved with barely any shred of support—and one stupid mistake had destroyed it all. It wasn’t the Lannisters who had driven her out of her life.

It was her.

The wind sang down the cliffs. The snow crumbled. Lady hobbled up beside her and shoved her head between Sansa’s elbows and stomach.

It was hard to be crumbled over with a giant dog skull jammed into her ribs. “Oh honey.” And she sat up just enough to start stroking her dog’s fur. “What are we going to do, huh?”

Lady looked up and licked the front of her jacket, then cuddled even closer. Sansa cradled the dog’s head as tightly as she could. Held on.

Then, like a shadow against the snow, Jon stood beside them. “Got everything?”

She felt like if she knocked against her own chest, there’d be an echo. “I do.” Nothing there at all.

But when offered a hand to help her up, she took it.

/~/~/~/

Sansa was a silent weight at his back. He’d tried talking to her some, but she hadn’t really answered. Sometimes she gave a weak squeeze. Sometimes she gave nothing at all. His abdomen needled and ached were her arms curled over it.

He felt like _shit._

Some part of him that morning had been spinning fantasies. That she’d stay just a few more days. That she’d smile. That she’d lean across that little bit of space in the kitchen to press her mouth against his. That she’d let him hold her, undress her, press his mouth to every square inch of her skin until—

It felt like the gods were punishing him. Those unshed tears; the way she’d collapsed on that fallen trunk.

This was what he got for wishing for things he shouldn’t have: a fucking kick to the teeth.

The snowmobile ate up the last mile until, at last, the cabin swam into view. In the backdoor window Ghost’s head popped up. The dog propped his paws against the door and started barking madly.

Lady yipped back. Ghost shimmied.

He killed the engine and grabbed one of Sansa’s wrists. “Let’s reunite Romeo and Juliet, hmmm?”

She murmured something indistinct and let him go. He followed her off the snowmobile but her helmet was still on—no way to see her face. When it became clear she wasn’t going to do anything, Jon went to the rescue sled and let Lady out and then went to the backdoor to do the same for Ghost.

The celebratory dancing began immediately. Ghost nearly knocked Lady off her legs. “Hey!” He snapped. “Easy!”

Ghost whined, properly chastised, and eased up his play. Lady merely whacked him in the face with her tail and scampered. Ghost, lovesick fool that he was, gave chase.

There was a reedy sound behind them, wet breath. Jon turned. Sansa’s shoulders were shaking; head bowed and her chin tucked to her chest. “I fucked up.”

 _Gods_. “You didn’t.”

“I did, I—” The sob crashed through. “It’s all my _fault_.”

“Honey, no.” He rushed for her, got her by the shoulders, then wrestled the helmet right off her. “You shouldn’t have been through that Gate at all, it’s not—”

“But it is!” She wailed. “I was so fucking stupid, I was the one driving, I was—I—"

He got an arm around her and pressed her face into the crook of his neck. “Shhhhhhhh.” And then skimmed a hand down her spine. “It’s too cold out here to be crying. C’mon, let’s head in.”

But the sobs still came, and he had to haul her indoors before the cold flayed her lungs from the inside. She kept gasping, tears clumping to her lashes and dripping down her face. She couldn’t seem to stop. The dogs clamored in behind them and sniffed at her hands.

It’d been years since he’d felt this helpless.

He pulled off his outer jacket, the inner, his boots, then did the same for her before guiding her to the couch. She followed him there with no fight to any of it. He went to stoke the fire, and she just curled onto the cushions and kept crying.

Once the fire was roaring, he sat with her. Gave her his shoulder and hurt all the way to the bone while she wept.

She jagged down eventually. “I’m sorry.” And then tried to pull away.

He carefully put a hand on the back of her neck and nudged until they were eye to eye. “Don’t apologize to me for any of this, alright?”

Her eyes were wet. _Blue_. Both dogs crowded and shoved for space to put their heads on Sansa’s lap. Lady won. Ghost huffed and settled for Jon’s knee.

“Then I’ll apologize to Lady.” She sniffed, and laid a hand on the dog’s brow. “It’s my fault she’s hurt.”

There had to be some way to untangle this, and his hand slipped from her neck. “What happened?”

“I was an idiot.”

He needed to get her to stop _saying_ that. “Doubt it. I’ve known plenty of mouth breathers, and you ain’t one of them.”

She huffed a little at that, head turned aside.

“Sansa,” He asked her. “ _Please_.”

And it seemed his pleading worked on her, as well as hers had worked on him, because she grabbed a tissue from the end table, blew her nose, and then looked him in the eye. “It’s a long story.”

“And we’re not going anywhere fast.”

“Okay.” She breathed deeply and then stroked Lady’s ears. “It…it started at work. The Lannister family is a big client of Mockingbird. I was helping Mr. Baelish give a private showing for a throne used at Casterly Rock by the Warden of the West, when holding Court during the second century of the Targaryen Occupation.” There came a sharp little hitch. “It was a beautiful piece.”

Of course it was. He cupped her elbow. “And?”

Her lashes dipped wetly against her cheeks. “That’s how I met Joffrey Lannister. He was charming and he asked me on a date. I said yes.”

And he already didn’t like where this was going.

She rooted around for words. “We dated for, I don’t know, six months? Seven? He was rich, _very_ rich. The places he’d take me…for awhile, I think I mistook the things we did being fun, for _him_ being fun. He said I could never do better than him, that I was lucky. Then he started picking at my clothes, my makeup, my hair. Said I had to try harder to run with a guy like him.” And her breath rushed out. “I hate all the money I wasted on that, you know? A fifty-dragon dress versus a five-hundred one, didn’t make me fit-in any better—make him nicer.”

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say.

She shrugged tiredly, and Lady nosed at her stomach. “It’s not your fault I put up with that nonsense. One night we were at some five-star dinner. It was just…it was stupid what it took to make me realize. One of his obnoxious friends jumped out of a chair and knocked over a waitress with a tray. It got everywhere, and he started berating her. And Joffrey?” Her lip curled. “He laughed at her. She was on the floor, on her hands and knees apologizing, and he _laughed_.”

It put a snarl in his chest, but he rubbed a thumb at her arm. Waited.

She didn’t drag it out. “I stopped taking his calls after that. He got nasty. I blocked him. I thought that was it, but three months later…” Her throat was trembling. “He was—he showed up blind drunk at my apartment. I was stupid and let him in. He started screaming at me. He thought I was playing some fucked-up game of hard to get. I told him to leave, that I would never be with him again.” And her eyes were glassy. Black. _Blue._ Until— “He punched me.”

And there came the thunder. A forest fire ignited in his chest. Spread. He felt it in his bones, his teeth, in the way his jaw ground _down._ It scorched him up inside—raging and useless for anything at all.

He pressed his thumb into the hinge of her arm as gently as he could. “Sansa…”

But she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I was on the floor and he was standing over me shouting, and that was when—that was when Lady...” Her hand stilled on the dog’s head. “She nearly ripped his arm off, just put her teeth in and dragged him to floor. The way he screamed…I still hear it. I think he ended up pissing himself. I called her off, but his arm—I could see muscle hanging off. Bone.” She blinked hard. “He ran.”

 _“Good_. _”_ Jon spat.

Her gaze rocked up to his, and he put a hand on Lady’s head; scratched at her ears and then down her neck to behind her collar. “Who’s a good girl?”

Sansa made this wet, bubbling sound. “ _Jon.”_

Lady just preened.

“I hope he tasted like chicken.” He continued. “I hope you gnawed on his fucking ulna.”

Lady’s tongue lolled in doggy bliss.

Sansa gasped loudly. “Jon!” And some distant part of him wished she’d gasp his name in another way. He smothered it.

He skimmed his hand back up Lady’s head and pressed his palm over Sansa’s in the fur. No regret now. Not for comfort and not for this. “He was a complete piece of shit to do that to you. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

“I know.” And there was steel in her voice. “I wished I’d known it sooner, but I do.” They were too close. Hand to hand, eye to eye. She searched him. “You’re the only person I’ve told.” And then she braced herself once more. “I thought I’d get arrested, but…nothing happened.”

The hairs on his arm prickled up. “He was the one who hit you.”

She stared back sadly. “Lannister money would make that meaningless.”

“Fuck that shit.”

And her mouth tugged up. Fell. “Yeah. It’s just…that thing with Joffrey happened a month ago. A few weeks after that, I was letting Lady out just before bed. We have this garden view apartment butted up against this skinny little spit of woods and swamp. She likes to go chase squirrels and do her business in there, but when she came back that night…” And Sansa clutched at Lady’s collar. “She came back with her leg bent out of angle and blood on her muzzle. And none of it was hers. Jon—” The fear shone bright. “There is nothing in KL big enough to hurt a Direwolf. Except…”

A chill scraped up his spine. His skin needled hot while the fear washed _cold_.

Nothing big enough but a man. A man waiting out in the woods, outside Sansa’s ground floor apartment, where she was backlit with light and the sliding doors were made of glass.

“Joffrey sent someone after Lady, I _know_ it.”

But fear kept scrabbling in his gut. For the first time, he realized Sansa may not have fully grasped the gravity of what had happened to her. A man had been waiting outside her house, at night, in the woods. That ratfuck might not have been there for Lady _at_ _all._

His hand tightened so hard on hers that Sansa winced. Lady immediately growled. Ghost, who was sitting barely a foot away, skittered.

Horror flooded him. Jon immediately let up. “Sorry, sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Sansa said. “I’m angry too.”

“I still shouldn’t have grabbed so hard.” He apologized, then made a big show of smoothing at Sansa’s hand in front of Lady’s face. The dog grumbled but relented, which was good. Jon was very attached to his arms.

Sansa flipped her hand and let his palm clasp to hers, then told him seriously: “This is when we get to the part where I’m a fuckup.”

“For the last time—”

“A few days after that, a letter came in the mail.” And she released him and shuffled off the couch. She went to the backpack and pulled out her purse, and then a letter from it. Her shoulders were rolled down. Hunched. She came back and shoved it into his hands.

It was crumpled and a little torn at the edges. It was a manila envelop with a red logo at the upper corner: _King’s Landing Animal Control._

His heart sank. Reluctant, he slipped the letter out and unfolded it. The paper was creased too; unfolded and refolded and clutched tight at the edges.

He read and it wasn’t a forest fire anymore. He was burning _gasoline._

Pieces jagged through. _Missed hearing. Surrender by Monday. Elimination. Disposal._

In his peripherals, Sansa sank to the floor and wrapped her arms around Lady. The dog nestled its head into her shoulder. “They want to kill my baby.” She told him quietly. “I looked it up, these things take months and months to go through the adjudication. They never sent me a letter for a hearing. This was Cersei, it has her stink all over it.”

He felt like his skull had been cracked open. “Who’s Cersei?”

“Joffrey’s mum.” Sansa hissed. “She hates me. Pretended she was nice at first, but then she was talking behind my back until she was trashing me right to my face. She hated that Joffrey was ever with me, and she let me know it. Let an animal go who hurt her precious baby? Not in a million years.”

“And then Lannister money happened.”

“And then Lannister money happened.” She agreed, and cuddled Lady to her until they were naught but a blur of fur and hair.

He had no answer to that, no way to fix it. No way to help her but sit here like a bump on a log.

Sansa pressed her face to fur. “I got that letter Wednesday night and panicked. I got in the car with Lady at 1AM and started driving. There are still intra-Kingdom extradition issues for people, so for dogs…”

He saw the shape of it. “Your sister in White Harbor.”

“Hmmmmm.” It was a low hum. “But then the highways on the Neck were closed, and you know the rest. I tried to fix one problem and instead made everything worse. I’ve wrecked my car and now I’m going to lose my job unless I sleep with my boss.”

He twitched. Don’t react. Don’t overreact. Don’t—“I could shoot him.”

She huffed. “No you can’t.”

“I assure you, I very much can.”

“Come sit on the floor and pet Ghost, it’ll make you feel better.”

“I’m not the one who has to feel better.” But he was still dropping to the floor with Ghost eagerly making a beeline for his lap. Jon shuffled them both over so they were right next to the girls. Tentatively, he reached out.

Sansa’s lashes dipped as she slid under his arm and pressed her body to his. They leaned their backs to the couch. Pet their dogs. Loosened.

Her breath puffed against his shoulder. “I fucked it up.”

“You made the best choices you could and ended up in a bad situation.” He corrected. “You’re talking to the King of Fuckups. Trust me, I’d know the difference.”

“Oh,” She asked waspishly. “And what’d you do, huh?”

He wondered at it as he curled his fingers around the softness of her upper arm. Felt her. Held her.

Felt that old shame, too. “I told you about how I bounced around my family? I actually got to stay in Oldtown a few years with Great Uncle Aemon until he passed. Good man, blind as a bat, always had some bits of wisdom you didn’t want to hear but desperately needed. After he went, my Uncle Viserys offered to let me stay with him.”

“Were you two close?” She asked, and the tears seemed to have stopped. That was something.

He shrugged. “Near enough. I drifted in and out of Grandma Rhaella’s house a lot when I was younger. My Aunt Dany and Uncle Viserys aren’t much older than I am. But Grandma couldn’t handle all three of us at once for long. So…yeah, me and Viz were alright. He’s an idiot who’s always bouncing out of town ‘cause of some get-rich-quick scheme gone wrong, but he taught me some things. And he always let me do what I wanted.”

Probably now, he realized at this older age, nearly to the point of his own detriment. Viserys had always wanted to be the cool-uncle at all costs, and Jon knew now that being allowed to go to the parties he’d gone to, and doing the dumb shit that he had, that it was a miracle he’d gotten to adulthood in one piece.

“He sounds fun.” That was a rosy way of putting it.

“He was.” Jon agreed, because at least that part was true. “We were actually in Wintertown for a while.”

She gasped. “That’s right near Winterfell!”

He hummed in acknowledgement and started sliding his hand up and down her arm. “Yeah. We lived in a duplex there that shared walls with the Poole family. They had a daughter, Jeyne. Jeynie. She was years younger than me, but she’d let me play video games with her on her parent’s big screen.” His throat started to hurt. “She was sweet. Naïve. She’d go to play with anyone who asked her.”

Sansa frowned. He could see it in her face now, that slow dawning of dread.

He still struggled with this as he did so many other things, but there was no way out of it but through. “I don’t know what really happened for sure. When I was sixteen—she was attacked. Bad. Story was, she went off with someone and they cut her up. Her arms, her chest—” His breath stuttered. “Between her legs.”

Sansa cringed away and let out a wounded noise. He made to let her go, but then she curved into him all the tighter. “I’m so sorry, that poor girl.”

“Yeah.” And it still roiled bloody in his brain all these years after. “I only saw her once afterwards before her parents moved them away. It was…it was fucked.” And now for the fuck _up_. “There was this shitstain at school. Ramsay Bolton; his daddy’s an Assemblyman for the North. We hated each other from the moment we met. There was something wrong with him, his eyes—” There weren’t quite words for it.

She gave him a nudge. “His eyes what?”

“Never seen a kid that age so completely dead _and_ manic in the face.” And it had been unholy. “Ramsay started bragging about hurting someone a week later. Letting on, you know. Hints. Tidbits. This went on for days. Then he said some things about Jeynie that only her family knew—how she was hurt down there. They’d told Viz, and he’d told me, and when I heard that…I lost it.”

Sansa nestled into him and wrapped her arm around his back. It dug between his spine and the couch, but he’d never ask her to move. To let go.

It was time to be blunt. “Sansa, I beat him half to death. Broke both his hands and bashed his face in. I got arrested the same day.” And then he waited to see what she’d say, what she’d do.

If she’d cringe away.

“I’m not a violent person.” And the glow of the fire wavered across her upturned face. “But if one my friends had been hurt like that; I would have wanted to hurt that monster right back.”

“But you wouldn’t have gone through with it.”

“Maybe.” She hedged. “But it’s done now, Jon. How many years has it been?”

A lump caught in his throat. “Thirteen.”

“And have you beaten anyone else half to death in that time?”

Gods. It eased a knot loose in his chest. “Nothing like that, scraps and things. Boys doing dumb shit.”

“Then I’m not going to get worked up about you beating the living daylights out of some psychopath when you were a kid. So what happened after you were taken in? Did that boy get arrested for Jeyne?”

“No.” Jon said. “Assemblyman daddy, remember? Poor, innocent Ramsay was just showing-off on something he didn’t do like a dumb kid, and some delinquent attacked him.”

She frowned hard. “Showing-off by talking about mutilating a little girl, and they called _you_ the delinquent? _Sure.”_

The outrage on his behalf was deeply affirming, but his breath still gusted. “Uh-huh. Nothing ever happened on her case from what I know, but I found this all out years later. I got put in front of a Judge who must have hated Daddy Bolton, because I got a choice.” And this was the hard part. “Juvie, or I go to the Castle Black Reform Camp for boys.”

“I’ve…heard of that?”

No way to do it but yank the band-aid, let her know what he really was. “It’s hard labor up at The Wall, but thing is, they teach you how being a Ranger works. Hunting, tracking, logging, conservation, firefighting. The Night’s Watch is always underfunded; the Camp is the way they make ends meet. They don’t have enough salaried Rangers to cover a thousand miles.” And it gave him some momentum—the point to all this. “I was there until I was eighteen. I scored one of the Night’s Watch traineeships when I was nineteen, by the time I was twenty-one, I was a full-time hire. The day I made Ranger was the happiest day of my life. I had my own apartment, my own car, and I was doing what I loved. I never could have guessed that would be my future when I was standing in that courtroom.”

She pressed her cheek over his heart. “I’m glad you got it. You’re great at this. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t lived the life you have.” And that gave him something. A spark, a warmth to guard behind his ribs and keep for good.

He wanted to kiss the top of her head. “I lost everything when I got shipped up there. I was an angry kid, but that hardship made me a better person. I’m not saying what you’re going through right now is easy, or that it doesn’t suck, or that you brought it on yourself. But you’re strong enough to get through it. Even when everything falls apart, there’s life after. You can rebuild. And sometimes, what comes out the other side is better.”

She wiggled under his arm. Hiccuped. “Don’t say things like that, you’re going to make me cry.”

“Sorry,” He wasn’t. “But it’s true. You’re gonna file insurance and get a new car, and you’re so damn smart people will be falling over each other to give you a job. You’ll get Lady somewhere safe, alright?”

“That’s a lot of big asks.”

“You can do it.”

She quieted for a time. A hand smoothed down his chest, and it left a burn behind. “Jon…what happened to them? To Jeyne?”

It ached, gods, did it ache down inside. He couldn’t kiss the top of her head, but he could rest his cheek against it and draw some strength. “I did some digging a few years ago. I could only see public postings, but Jeynie owns this little café now. Cats and stuff, real cute. There was this guy in a lot of pictures with her. I think she’s happy.”

She chewed that over. “And the other?” She didn’t voice his name; didn’t give him that honor.

And an ugly vindication _seethed_. “Drugs and human trafficking across Kingdom borders. Assemblyman daddy couldn’t protect him after that. Thems Federal charges.” And his lips peeled back. “Ramsay was just as talented at endearing himself to people on the inside as he was on the out. He got shivved to death at Seagard before he turned twenty-five.”

Sansa chewed that, answered: “ _Good.”_ Same tone. Same anger he’d had inside when he’d thought of Lady gnawing to the bone. There wasn’t justice in life, but occasionally there was something. Slivers. Bruises. Blood on the ground.

But only sometimes, he knew that well.

Her chest rose and fell. She breathed with him. He watched the downwards sweep of her lashes; felt the weight where her cheek pressed to his chest.

He wanted it to stay forever.

“Jon…thank you.”

But he’d settle for another hour. “Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! I tricked a bunch of you into thinking we were getting to Strongsong! Lol. I absolutely loved how salty some of y'all about it, you adorable darlings, you. But Sansa's not leaving just yet. More fires, cuddling, and being snowed-in to come! 
> 
> Now,
> 
> Lady: *is the goodest, softest girl*  
> Joffrey: *hits Lady's mum*  
> Lady: ( °□° )  
> Also Lady: *GOES APESHIT*
> 
> And that is the story how ol' Joffy boy's right arm was never the same again. Direwolves have berserker in the family tree, and Joff will have nightmares about the frothing, screeching, and Lady howling like the hounds of hell for the res of his life.
> 
> As Sansa is never going to know the inner-workings of the Lannister family, I'm going to explain some things here. A few of you are probably wondering why Cersei didn't try/actually get Sansa arrested for Lady attacking Joff. The answer is Tywin Lannister. At this point the Old Lion is absolutely sick of Cersei and Joffrey's shit. Joffrey is 28 and has been completely incompetent working in the family company, and throughout his entire life has left a trail of fuckups that Tywin's money and fixers have been forced to clean up. Cersei isn't Ty's daughter here, and her marriage to his son has brought out the worst in Jaime. Ty is also starting to get suspicious she may be cheating on Jaime as well. Long story short, Tywin showed up to the hospital, saw Joffrey that was still blind drunk with a hole in his arm from his ex-girlfriends dog, and put two and two together. He slammed his foot down and told both to leave the Stark girl be, or Joffrey would be cut out of his trust and Ty would make it his life's mission to fuck Cersei over.
> 
> It's not really about Sansa at all, just Tywin at his last wits and finally willing to cut a bitch.
> 
> Cersei and Joff are too afraid of the Old Lion to go direct routes, so they independently cooked up schemes. Cersei with animal control, and Joffrey sending one of his nasty friends to the woods outside Sansa's apartment. And all I'll say on that last bit is that Joffrey is such a dumbass, that he didn't tell/even know that Sansa's dog was a Direwolf. Even though Sansa told him multiple times. 
> 
> There will be more on that incident in the woods to come...
> 
> And we all finally got some Jon backstory. Yay! But probably not the one y'all were expecting. Trust me though, Jon's whole trauma will be gotten to.
> 
> Meanwhile: Jon beating Ramsay half-to-death in ALL THE UNIVERSES. (☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞ Ur welcome. 
> 
> Now...for Viserys! In my verse he's kind of a lovable dumbass, not as smart as he thinks he is, smarmy asshole with a heart of tarnished silver. He doesn't have a nurturing bone in his body, but is still trying his best and loves his family. He was raised to adulthood by Rhaella, and as we respect Rhaella Targaryen in this house, I can't imagine him turning out all bad with a stable household and his mom being alive. Aerys is dead here. Don't know how yet, but he is stone cold in the ground. I know this is going to be weird for a lot of you, but in this universe Viserys "Viz" Targaryen is the family member Jon loves most after Great Uncle Aemon.
> 
> Next time: Jon and Sansa begin settling in for the long haul at the cabin, and long days and close quarters cause certain tensions to begin to catch flame...


	8. Crown Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super long chapter for y'all, cause you were patient.
> 
> Also: when Sansa is talking about canon/history in this verse, there are going to be some historical inaccuracies that we know to be untrue. I'll explain more about why this is in the end notes, but FYI.

Sansa must have been more exhausted than she’d let on, because she only fussed at him a little when he bullied her into a nap.

“But what if you need—”

“I don’t need anything right now.” And he gave her another small nudge to propel her on.

She frowned at him, squinted a little. It was cute. “Liar.”

She was right. There were all sorts of things he needed: a resupply, a new satellite dish, for her to let him see her naked in his bed. But like most things in life, he’d have to do without. “You are less than three days out from a car crash. Please take a nap.”

“But—”

“Lady’s tired too; she’s been running after us a lot.”

Sansa shot down a guilty look. He honestly felt bad for it, but Lady just slowly swished her tail and leaned against Sansa’s hip. It was a ringing endorsement for a siesta in his opinion.

It must have been for Sansa too, because she huffed: “ _Fine.”_ And then shuffled into the study with a hand on Lady’s head.

He caught Ghost’s collar before he could follow. “No you don’t.”

Ghost whined loudly. From the study, Lady whined back. He heard a scuffle, then Sansa hissing. “ _No_.” And then the door latching shut. He felt immediately bereft, it was honestly pathetic, but at least one of his worries was momentarily bedded. Not bedded in the way he’d truly like, but—

Ghost rammed him in the knee.

“Hey!” He squawked. “You don’t know what I was thinking!”

Ghost glared balefully.

“It’s not like I’m getting any either,” Jon hissed. “So you can stop giving me _that look_.”

The dog just flung his head upwards and stomped towards the back door. His paws were so fluffy, they made these soft little _fwump-fwump-fwumps_ on the floor. A snort broke out of him then. Harsh. Brittle. But gods, it was still a laugh. Things were shit yet, but Ghost could sulk, and Sansa could sleep, and Lady could lay guard at her bed.

He had to remind himself, but life could always be worse.

/~/~/~/

She slept hard and woke on an unsteady rise. There were no windows in the study, just the fading glow of fire to tell her how many hours she’d lost. Exhaustion rolled thick. The cage of her ribs still ached where it held her battered heart.

Her arm rose and fell, slung as it was over Lady’s side as the dog quietly snored. Sansa could almost pretend it was another lazy Sunday. Lady under the comforter and a good book waiting on her nightstand if only she opened her eyes.

But her eyes were already open.

She’d wanted so much. Different shores. Farther reaches. King’s Landing a haze of heat and neon nights. Rum on the tongue. A golden skyline. And gods, the ancient mortar the city was built with. She’d chased the sun across so many silent battlements. Here had volleyed arrows on the Stag King, here had died a Kingsguard when the defenses breached. Here had the banners tumbled. _Here._

She’d hid in alcoves with her books. Leaned as far over the velvet ropes as allowed so she could stare at crumbling arches. There had been study partners, acquaintances, and those long nights too. Shots, flash cards, salt and grease between their teeth as the night winds rushed across the Blackwater.

Belonging for the first time: no little jibes about her nose in a book, or her short skirts and flashy makeup. Only admiration. _Competition_ ; a little bit of gentle ribbing from people who spoke her archaic language.

During her Masters there’d been the sprawl of the Red Keep’s library; drifting dust and stones worn so smooth by the years. Where she’d studied in those halls, Grand Maester’s who’d written the very books in her hands had done the same. Where Kings had walked, so too did she tarry. Heads had been taken and men burned alive. Feasts. Fervors. Bacchanals. There’d been history in every corner she could reach. In each page and every spray of holy glass.

She’d known so many stories and names upon arriving, and had learned so many more in the years that followed.

Even the Good Queen had been held in the Red Keep, once. Sansa the First. Sansa the Beloved—holy be her name. She had killed a bastard King and for a moon’s turn, history and myth became indistinguishable. The books said she’d fled to the Vale to rally an army. The songs trumpeted that she’d turned into a wolf; grown leathery wings and then flown howling for the North. But the songs and books agreed on one thing: she only returned to those red-stoned walls once she had a crown on her head and kingdoms at her back.

There would be no crowns for her, though, and no army to rally up here in the Vale. Just a snoring dog and a string of bad choices that wouldn’t be fixed.

When she’d been introduced to Mr. Baelish by Professor Dontos, it had only seemed natural to take the job he offered. It’d been so good at the start. She’d woken up every day excited for what would appear in the auction lots next. Rumors about her new boss had reached her a few months in, but for every pack of rumors, there’d be some girl on staff giggling in Mr. Baelish’s car with some new sparkling bobble on her wrist, and a salacious story to share in the breakroom later.

Sansa had turned him down more than once; cut-off some more private avenue before he could suggest it, and then…nothing had happened. Not the first time, not the second, not the third. He’d just carried on as if nothing had been said, and she’d truly begun to believe that the rumors were overblown. What was a hand on the shoulder, a fleeting brush on the hip, to getting to touch a High Northern Coronation gown with her very own hands?

She snorted. Well, it was more than fleeting now.

Besides her, Lady rolled and snuffled, and then tried to burrow her nose into Sansa’s armpit.

“Stop that.” She mumbled.

Lady’s eyes slit open, then closed. The nose inched ever closer.

Sansa rolled Lady back in the other direction, and the dog let out a woeful sigh. Sansa mirrored it. Ros wouldn’t lie to her about this, and the rumors—well. They weren’t rumors anymore, just ugly fact and a gutting choice.

She was so sick of everything she touched falling apart. Gods help her, she shouldn’t let Jon put his arm around her anymore—rub those rough-hewn fingers against her skin. She’d infect him with whatever was wrong with her, and she shouldn’t…

But she felt it still; that ghost of his hand. Her arm still prickled as if he was brushing it now. Like she was safe with him—cherished. As if he’d give her every shelter under the weight of his body if only she thought to ask for it.

It was a dangerous sort of fantasy to feed into. “Gods damn it.”

Lady’s ear twitched.

She dragged a hand through Lady’s fur. “You think it’s lunchtime yet? That the boys are hungry?”

At the mention of _lunch,_ Lady’s head popped up like a jack from the box. “I knew that would get you, come on.” So up they got. There was no smell of coffee from the kitchen, and when they limped inside, the woodstove was burning low.

That wouldn’t do.

She took wood from a hamper near the door and stoked the fire, then put a pot of coffee on. She checked the clock. Past noon—closer to two than one. But there were no extra dishes in the sink, and the only plates in the strainer were from their toast at breakfast. If Jon had eaten, he hadn’t done it in the house.

“What do you think, still time to surprise them with lunch?”

Lady woofed and jostled around. Sansa took it for an emphatic _yes_. They went to the cupboards and rooted about like bandits. There were bouillon cubes on the shelf behind the mugs, along with a few onions and a head of garlic. In the fridge there was a fair-sized container filled with shreds of what looked like venison, and behind that sat some carrots. She checked the freezer. Frozen peas. She already knew there were potatoes in the cellar.

She shut the fridge and bent down, took Lady’s perfect fluffy face into her hands, and asked: “We’re going to have venison stew, can you help? Will you be my good girl?” Lady’s tail became a windmill. She rumbled and then whined.

“I knew you would, bunny.” And she kissed Lady’s head. “First order of business: _nibbles.”_

Lady barked her delight. And true to Sansa’s word, very shortly Lady was being fed little nibbles of venison off the cutting board while a giant pot of water plus bouillon came to bubble. On the next burner sat the venison sizzling in olive oil. The garlic was in there too along with the onions to sauté. Soon she’d be tipping them into the pot, and then tossing cubed potatoes and sliced carrots by the handful behind them. This was the best part of stew—she got to feel like a witch.

She checked the pan. The first of the meat had browned, and she happily started tossing it in. “Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn and caldron bubble—”

Somewhere distantly, a chainsaw revved. She leaned to the window. It wasn’t a perfect angle, but she could see part of the mountainside as it rose up up _up_. Jon was on top of one of the downed trees. A massive one. It put him nearly seven feet off the ground, and yet he was casually putting the saw to work as if that height bothered him not at all.

There was a smudge of off-white against the snow. It was Ghost, barking ecstatically. He darted forward as the branch Jon was working on cut away and hit the ground. The dog grabbed it with his teeth and gave it a firm shake before dragging it to the house. As soon as he dropped it, the dog was sprinting back eager for the next victim.

Jon eased off the chainsaw and shouted something. Ghost danced and whirled in the snow.

At that sight, something soft and so very lovely bloomed inside her chest.

Jon’s shoulders were a firm line, but she knew how supple they could be when she worked them. A quivering built low inside her. It was a sensation she’d do well enough to ignore, and yet her gaze stayed fixed outside. The memory of that night still lingered: his broad shoulders, the ridge of his spine, the heat of his skin even through a layer of cotton. He’d stayed so pliant for her, and her mind conjured it again. This time she knotted a hand into those curls, guided his head aside, kissed the rasp of that jaw as she found his beard, his mouth, his breath. Dragged him deep, until—

Lady barked. The pot was roiling hard. She pressed a hand to her heart and very valiantly didn’t press another between her legs. Mother of the _Maiden._ There were still vegetables to toss in, a meal to monitor—a promise she’d made with herself to _stop this._

The bruising would only get uglier in the coming days, cracked and seeping yellow as pus. Jon knew what a disaster she was. How stupid she could be, and yet…

He’d believed her capable without a shadow of a doubt.

No one had ever thought that of her. Too flighty, too in her books. No common sense at all. Poor, stupid, helpless _Sansa_.

And yet Jon…

Her hands scrabbled blindly at the cutting boards and she couldn’t stop watching outside. Remembering his arms, his hands, him pulling her so securely into his chest. And she found it wasn’t defeat that stung the worst of all.

It was hope.

/~/~/~/

He clattered out of the gear room to the most heavenly smell and sight imaginable. Sansa Stark standing over a pot on his stove, with her hair in loose waves and his sweater clinging over her arse. Steam was beaded on the windows, and his mouth watered.

She turned shyly. “Hungry?”

And his throat rasped: “ _Starved_.” Gods, he didn’t even know what he wanted a taste of first. And fuck. _Fuck._ If she hadn’t been stuck before, she was trapped here now. And after hearing the horror that was her last boyfriend—

He couldn’t. He was a voracious beast that had to learn not to take its fill, and good fucking luck to him. He was turning into an _animal._

Her cheeks were pinked-up from the steam. So was her mouth; the bow that would so perfectly part for him if only she’d let him devour her whole.

Before that train of thought could fully leave the station, Ghost jostled him in his leap across the kitchen for Lady. Always saving Jon from himself, that dog. He wouldn’t even resent the animal for being allowed to be blatant in his affections unlike his poor, bestruck, imbecilic master.

The dogs eagerly butted heads and then started wiggling as if they’d been separated for days. Sansa stared down at them, and he desperately searched her face for any sign of her mood. “Have a good sleep?”

“Hmmmmm.” Was her hummed non-answer, but then her lips tugged up just a smidgen. He’d take it.

“What kept you out there so long?” She asked, and at that, her cheeks turned downright rosy.

He didn’t fully understand why she was flushing, but gods did he _like_ it. “The solars are being a hag on a hill. The whole thing’s daisy-chained, and it’s not outputting voltage like it should. A line got busted. Probably more than one.” And he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I need to get the bad panels out of the chain, and the only way to do that is get down to the lines.”

“Which means cutting the tree and moving it.” And she looked as tired at the thought as he felt. She gave an absent stir to the pot before lurching. “Gods—I should have turned off the lights already, you said that—”

“No, no.” And he caught her by the hips and chivvied her back towards the stove. At that moment he so desperately wanted to smooth his hands up her sides—or down her legs—that his throat clicked when he swallowed.

Sansa glanced down at his hands. He carefully drew them away as if that reflex hadn’t just shown itself naked for what he wanted. He might as well put an ad in the paper, carve it in the mountainside. Get a bleeding skywriter.

Jon Snow was gone on Sansa Stark. Please send help.

“Alright,” She surrendered, though her return to the stove was reluctant. “But what’s going on?”

“I flipped the generators on last night until I can get solars put to rights, so we’re good right now for power.” It’d been a drunken stumble at the time, but he’d managed it. Sansa had been giggling at the top of the steps and begging him to be careful. He’d been lucky the bourbon had hit him so hard that the stairs back up had been trouble, otherwise he might have rushed them hoping to get her begging for something _else._

It was a near stumble too as he sat at the kitchen table. Maybe he’d gain some sense if he had the few feet of it to stop himself from leaping at her. “That’s…the panels. Right. That’s a few-day job and then it’s lights off for real. I promise I’ll tell you when; you can help me tape down the light switches.”

That seemed to cheer her. “Happy to help. I hope we have candles.”

Gods, he liked that _we_ as it rolled off her tongue. “Plenty. Some kerosene lamps too along with the fireplaces. We’ll be all set. We can make it look like a bloody séance in here if you want.”

That was what finally drew a smile from her, and it was like seeing the sun break from the storm. Her mouth then pursed. “Do not treat with things beyond your ken, Jon Snow.”

“Or what?” He asked glibly.

“Or we’ll have more ghosts in the house than sweet Ghostie, and I’ll have to do a Northern cleansing.” And she raised a brow. “I doubt any of those candles you have are tallow; that’s the first step.”

“And what’s the second?”

“Beeswax candles, naturally.” And she tutted sharply. “Asks the man fooling with things beyond his ken.”

The only thing beyond his ken was _her_. “No one ever accused me of being smart, honey.” They had, in fact, accused him of knowing nothing. “But why beeswax?”

“It comes from when the Old Gods went from being a decentralized religion rooted in animism, to a more ritual based hierarchy with the Children of the Weirding. You’ll only have rituals forming in a religious system if there are consecrated figures to perform them. Tallow candles burn sooty, but beeswax burns clean. Before the Weirding, only royalty and lords and septons could afford beeswax, which leant those candles a certain quality of…”

“Holiness.” He realized, and that drew her to him like a moth. Her gaze searched him; cut him down to the bloody quick. There wasn’t much to him, he knew, not much to see.

“ _Yes_.” But that sound spilled on her breath like there might be, and he ducked down. He watched her hands, unable to do anything else lest he see in her eyes what she saw in him. He couldn’t bear it.

She regripped a handle of the pot. Turned away; released him. “Just—no séance. I’m not holy enough for cleansing any ghouls, and neither are you.”

But he followed the pale willow of her neck anyways. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” And she stilled. Fuck, she couldn’t be sure what that meant, but she had to know—hadn’t she? Just which of the two of them he’d find holy and yet so willing to profane?

“Jon, do you…” But she didn’t finish the thought. “Can we go up the mountain? Tomorrow morning?”

He had a faint idea just what she was asking. He hadn’t been worried exactly, but…an ugly fear still loosed its teeth from his throat. “I gotta check in with Valley Base anyways, so early’s fine with me.”

She nodded only once. Sharpish. “Thank you.” Then screwed up the visible courage to add: “I need to quit my job. So—that would really help.”

And that last wretched tooth finally came free. “Glad to hear.”

“It wasn’t really a choice at all, it’s just…” Her shrug was weak, but he understood.

“I know. Starting over—it ain’t easy.” And it wasn’t. It hadn’t been the first time and it hadn’t been the second time, either. But he kept an arm on the table and the opposite on his knee, and didn’t reach for where he’d once clawed bloody. “It’s good that you are; means I won’t have to go down to King’s Landing and shoot the bastard.”

“Ranger _Snow.”_ She scolded, but he was a beast unrepentant and so, so hungry. He knew she wouldn’t feed him, but god, was he an animal that wanted to _eat._

Her eyes narrowed at his willful silence, and he smiled back wide.

A delicate nose scrunched. “Just for that, I’m putting a curse on the stew.”

“Another one of your Weirding secrets, Stark?”

“It just might be.” She muttered, and then with no hesitation she started singing some witchy song right over their supper.

He had to hand it to her—the woman was committing. And in that moment his chest felt cracked open, the sunlight poured in. Just a few hours ago he’d been cursing that downed tree with shoulders aching and chainsaw bucking at every knot. Sweat had been getting in his eyes while frustration gnawed in his belly. He’d come back to the house in a foul mood, and yet ten minutes sitting here with her, and everything was wiped clean.

She kept singing high and sweet. Filled his head until there was nothing but her. Even if she was putting a curse on him, he’d take it gladly.

But this was no curse.

There came a little wiggle of her hips followed by a flourish of her spoon. Then, so easily it shook every bit of rust from his bones, he threw back his head and laughed.

Never had a man been so damnned and happy for the hell that waited. Tears gathered beneath his eyelids as the laughter kept rolling out. He hadn’t felt like this…gods, hadn’t felt like this in…?

Ever. _Ever_ ever.

She dunked a ladle into the stew. Blew on it. Poured it into a bowl. Then with a hypnotic sway to her hips, she delivered it right to his plate. “Lunch is up. Careful, it’s _hot._ ”

And he grinned hard. “It sure is.”

/~/~/~/

Jon Snow was a menace. A threat to her health. Her underwear. Common _decency._ Grinning at her just so, while slurping at his stew _that_ indecently—

…well, she wasn’t sure the last part had been intentional. It was probably her lascivious mind at work. But still: never had a man made venison stew look so appetizing. By the end when he was licking his spoon clean, she’d truthfully wanted him to lick—

_Easy girl._

“—can handle it?”

She blinked sharply. “…yes?”

His eyes narrowed. “Cleaning the bunkroom? It’ll save me some time if you can manage it, but if you’re too tired right now—”

“I’m just _fine_.”

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smirked: “Can’t argue that.”

Was he…was he? But before she could figure out what exactly that goading spark meant, he pivoted away. “You need to wear boots up there, and I’ve got plenty of leather work-gloves in the gear room, so you’d better—”

“I’m not interested in cutting myself on glass any more than you are.” And she raised a supercilious brow at the order. He flushed a bit at that, and she liked it, just as much as she liked having him on the backfoot. “How are your shoulders doing, by the way?”

He twitched like a boy scolded. Grumbled: “They’ll hold up.”

“So just to be sure, I’ll be working on them tonight.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“You don’t have a habit of doing that, no.”

“ _Sansa.”_ He rumbled.

“ _Jon.”_ She taunted.

Ghost plopped his head on the table. “ _Ghostie_ , we won’t forget you.” And she giggled as she reached to pat his darling head.

Jon flung his eyes skyward. “Whatever. Wear gloves, don’t eat anything off the floor. I’ll see you for dinner.”

“It worries me that’s a warning you feel need to give.”

“Safety briefings in the Night’s Watch were so much _fun_.” He muttered.

That seemed terribly unlikely, but still: “I’m looking forward to it.” And then Jon was throwing up his hands and marching back to the gear room. Lady gave one last mournful lick to Ghost’s face as the other dog whuffed and then trotted after his master.

It was the great tragedy of their time, but gods, did she love to watch that man _go._ She reached down to pat Lady’s head and consoled them both. “There there, they’ll be back soon.”

/~/~/~/

It took until dark for her to finish putting the bunkroom back together. Shoving the furniture upright, sweeping out the broken glass, picking pine needles out of every nook and cranny including the ceiling light.

She’d been raised to do a job once and do it well, and she’d be damned if that changed now. But the tarps and boards nailed over the windows weren’t the greatest windbreak, and she was glad again for Jon’s sweater as she hurried along. When she was done with the bunkroom she rejoined Lady in the hall, shut the door, then stuffed a towel in the bit of space beneath to kill the draft whistling through.

Exhaustion kept climbing. She wondered if there’d come a time when the aching would stop. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe…

It was dark out, and quiet downstairs. She put the stew back on to reheat and then went to let Lady out the backdoor. A floodlight was blazing off the back of the house. It took a while for her eyes to adjust, to find Jon still working and just another shadow in this towering dark.

The mountains looked like jags against the sky, like yawning fissures in the celestial sphere. They swallowed stars. Worlds.

The chainsaw guttered to silence.

She brought her eyes down from the sky and raised her voice: “Jon! Dinner!” And for a brief, stomach-jolting moment, felt like a wife calling her husband to the table. Gods, all these fantasies. All these _absurdities._

 _Cart before the horse again, Sansa._ And never would she learn.

Jon hefted the chainsaw into a crook in the branches and then leapt down. Sawdust plumed, and his boots crunched through pine needles and then snow. His mask was on and his goggles were down. Eyeless. Faceless.

She shivered, and it wasn’t for the wind.

He gripped the door beside her head, and she felt the heavy frame shudder. Leather creaked. His breath clouded. “In you get, honey.” Like a husband admonishing his—

The shiver became a _burn_. She struggled for sense, found a single piece of it, and then fled inside like the mountains were crumbling behind them. If Jon noticed, he didn’t say it, just called for the dogs before kicking his boots clean.

Neither the adrenaline nor embarrassment lasted. The reheated stew was nearly ready by the time he rejoined them. Jon was moving slower now, and truthfully, so was she. When he stepped to her, his presence rolled over her like an eclipse. His height, his heat, the way her skin prickled just for his shadow across her body.

He nudged her from the stove. “Sit a bit.”

“But I’m—”

“Please.”

And so she sat, utterly helpless to ever say no. He took her place and pulled some bread out of the freezer; put it on a pan, and then slotted it into the oven. He stirred the pot absently. Ghost flopped over Lady under the table, and then started snoring like a freight train.

Lady huffed, but Sansa didn’t glance down.

She knew what tiredness looked like, and what it was compared to fatigue. And she knew how easily both could spiral to a burnout. No one could work at Mockingbird long without recognizing it. Between the two of them, it was obvious. Old aches. New strain. Exhaustion. The weight of a threadbare silence pushing to every wall.

One week, two. The long haul. He’d been doing all the heavy lifting to keep them safe, and would only be doing more in the days to come. There was nothing she could do about it but be humbled. “How much longer?”

She didn’t have to clarify, and Jon sighed deep. “I’m not down to the lines yet. Two days, two-half.”

Her eyes stung. “Maybe we could wait a bit? Let you…?”

But he cut it off. “There’s only a month of diesel up here. Every day I spend is one we won’t have later, and we might very fuckin’ badly _need it_ later.” And the muscles in his back clenched harshly. “It’ll be hard routes the rest of winter. No trailer on the snowmobile, which means whatever diesel I can bring back is minimal. We get the grid back up and running as soon as possible, and then we shut down.”

A shiver crackled down the valley of her spine. One week, two—but that had been a best guess, hadn’t it? His shoulders were bruised though, and she wouldn’t suffer any more on them. “What can I do to help?”

The tension in his back didn’t uncoil, but it stopped winding tighter. “We’ll be shutting away the top of the house. There are vents upstairs in the floors; some of them are in weird places. I need you to find them all and close ‘em. After that, start weather proofing windows and grabbing anything we’ll need and bring it downstairs. Bedding, towels, toiletries. Anything. My stuff’s in the room with the queen bed—take whatever you need and however much clothing you want for the next two weeks. Everything in the bunkroom is Hardyng’s or Waynwood’s. If they’ve got something you need that I don’t have, grab it. Otherwise, I only want you to take from mine.”

A long breath hissed out. She couldn’t see his face, and yet she knew his jaw was winding tight.

She wanted to cross the room; press the tips of her fingers to his cheek. Gentle it for him. Gods, she was already out of her chair and willing to make the attempt. But if she kept moving—what she wanted from him would be obvious, and the last thing they needed was her making things uncomfortable.

So she stayed behind the table, heart yearning and hands useless. “How cold will it get upstairs?”

“Very.”

“Okay,” She affirmed. “Then I’ll bring down anything that looks like it might freeze and explode.”

Jon swore. “Shit. Yeah, just—please do that.”

“I will. And as long as we’re thinking about this…” Her mind picked a slow thread. “We should shut all the doors upstairs and insulate the cracks. The staircase down to here has a door at the top and an empty doorway at the bottom. It was fairly common in Northern Castles to have velvet or other hangings on the entries—an extra layer of insulation to keep the warmth in. If you have any plastic sheeting and a few extra quilts, we can make it work. One at the top and another at the bottom. Vestibule it.”

His hands were on the edges of the stove, knuckles whitening until—his entire body sagged. Head bent; the line of his shoulders dipped so wearily to center.

“Jon?”

And he cleared his throat. “That’s…it’s a great idea. I know we’ve got that stuff around here somewhere, so if you could find it…?”

And she knew. “I’ll handle it, don’t worry. You just focus on the solars. Lady and I are on top of it.”

Another harsh breath. His hand reached to grip his shoulder again and squeezed _hard_. She couldn’t stop this time. She crossed that narrow space of the kitchen and he must have heard it, because he was turning. Turning; eyes bright and the shadows so deep under them.

A hand hooked to the small of her back. Slid up. Then an arm like a band of steel was following it and welding between her shoulder blades. When the tips of his fingers crested her shoulder, he dragged her in.

She went to him.

Another arm went tight across her lower back, and then his forehead was shoving into the junction of her neck and pressing hot. A frission rippled out from every point of contact, and she was shivering again. _Gods in your infinite and tender mercy, please deliver us from—_

She wrapped her arms around him and held on.

His mouth was near her collarbone, hot and damp even through her clothes. “Thank you. You’ve got no idea how…how much you’ve been helping me out. Godsfuck.” His ribs expanded then, and his arms started loosening. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

But she dragged a palm against his shoulder and then yanked him to her. His arms spasmed and then locked her right back against him.

She pressed a cheek to his hair. “I’ve barely been doing anything, Jon. You’ve been doing the lion’s share.”

“Don’t you start.”

And she made a wet sound. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “Then you’re welcome.”

He grunted something indistinct and rumbling, a roll of thunder poured right into her chest. Heat was opening in blooms under her skin. But gods, it was hot as molten metal right where her chest met his. She wanted to squirm and wanted to sigh. Wanted to cling and linger and slip her hands beneath his shirt.

Gods did he make her _dizzy_.

But before she could decide between one thing and the next and the next _,_ he raised his head and shuffled in place. Looked away. The heat banked inside her. She knew his expression as she’d known it in herself: overexposed and not wanting anyone to know how fragile she felt.

He’d been so gentle with her, and she’d never do anything less for him. She gave him a smile and then gave him an out. “Food ready?”

“Yeah,” And he cleared his throat rough. “Let’s eat.”

/~/~/~/

He only realized the deafening, violent clamor his brain had reached, when her hands fell on his shoulders and started working the pain out.

Within a minute, his brain had quieted to a low murmur. Within five, there was a blessed silence that sent him drifting as her little hands propelled him to some new and undeserved heaven. He didn’t even understand how she'd done it—when she’d taken them to the study and made them both sit on the mattresses, her front at his back and her thighs slotted on either side of his—his brain had gotten stupid. Had gotten _ideas_.

And then her hands had gone to work, and he’d realized his brain had been screaming.

Pines, splinter-wood—that goddamn _tree_. How many lines were busted under it? Would he even have enough left to finish the daisy chain? The house was drawing low voltage and he didn’t know if he could bloody fix it. Of all the things the Night’s Watch had taught him, how to be an electrician had never been one of them. Would they have half a day's power? Less? And gods, he had to count the food, count the gas, figure out if all the snowmobiles were running smooth. Had he brought the extra parts up from the valley like he’d meant to that summer? Spares? They were trapped—half-trapped. He could leave, but couldn’t take her with him. Had to keep her safe, keep her warm, keep her fed. Happy; smiling at him. And was the roof actually sound, or was the next gust gonna put a hole in that the storm had started? Or gods damn him, maybe cave-in the actual fucking _wall_ the tree had hit. And what would they have left then? And fuck, _fuck_ this _fucking tree_ that was so goddamned knobbly, he was going to burn out the fucking chainsaw on it—

Sansa was warm at his back, her thighs gently squeezing his. It grounded him again. Her fingers were the softest things on the gods' green earth, and the whirlwind frayed and frayed until it was gone.

The job was the job, it always had been. He was good at it: multitasking, seeing around corners, realizing the danger before it could _be_ a danger and neutralizing it. The talent made some sense. He’d had to mind his own habits as a kid, get his homework done if it was getting done, cook if he wanted to eat, get himself on the school bus and then back home, and then anything else that he needed. He’d taken care of Uncle Aemon and done everything he could around the house when the man’s sight had truly begun failing. And with Viz—gods knew he loved the man, but somebody needed to mind the bills and make sure their electricity didn’t get shut off for the third time that year.

It’d been near natural by the time he got to the Night’s Watch to take the lead. To always double check the work. Be the one the boys _looked to_ among the rest. When his career had started, he’d been solo for a lot of assignments. Fire watch. Logging. Poaching, poaching again, until he was tapped for…

He squeezed his eyes shut. Another awful scrabble began to rise, but then Sansa brought her thumbs to the base of his neck and drew it away.

Gods, the details didn’t bear remembering. But the Night’s Watch had taught him he needed to watch his own damn back, and he hadn’t forgotten that lesson since.

He could work with people, he just couldn’t—

“Lean on me.” She murmured. And fuck it, he did. Easiest thing and no hesitation at all.

Her hands left his back and took one arm gently to start working along. Upper arm, elbow, forearm. Pushed the tension down down _down._

Her breath spilled warm on his neck; lulled him. He wanted to sleep in the cradle of her body for _years._

She switched to his other arm and rubbed some gnarled kink from his wrist. He groaned. She thumbed at his palm, whispered: “You’re not giving yourself time to rest.”

He knew that, but it couldn’t be helped. “Soon. I promise.”

“When this is done.” She continued. “I mean it, you _rest_.”

“Uh-huh. We’ll stop the whole week. Do nothin’.” And he realized his eyes were still shut. He opened them; watched the fire lick gold and then as red as her hair. He warmed to it. “We’ll stay in bed all day and only leave for food. To let the dogs out.” _Cuddle,_ his traitorous mind added. And fuck, he liked that, too. He liked that a _lot_. Sansa all warm and breathing soft, and letting him hold her like he was the only thing she wanted.

“I’m holding you to that.” She answered quietly. “Now lay down; I want to do your lower back.”

He’d let her do way more than that. Probably be a bad idea to suggest it, though. Reluctantly, he pulled his weight off her and rolled onto the mattress. She straddled his back and squeezed his sides with her knees. He gave a half-second thought to rolling so she was straddling his hips the other way—but then her thumbs dug deep and he lost all sense. Lost all self-control, because suddenly he was moaning like a well-paid slattern who needed to make rent.

“Never stop.” He begged.

She just let out this amused little snort, and somewhere between one press and the next, he dropped dead asleep.

/~/~/~/

The second day was nearly silent. The wheel had started turning on this mill, and it was grinding _fine._

They went up the mountain. She called Ros and felt her old life slip through her fingers, a Mockingbird no more. Jon called Valley Base and turned dark as the grave. She’d raised her eyes and asked without asking.

His face stayed stone. “We might be here more than two weeks.”

And whatever fears she felt, she swallowed them alive and squirming.

They went back down the mountain. He stayed out, she went in, and they worked and worked and _worked_ until the sun was down. They saw each other at lunch, but only exchanged a few words on logistics before parting. The loss of her job still had her numb, and the most she felt that day was digging into his unmentionable drawer and finding out that Jon Snow wore boxer briefs. Black. Navy. Gray. And how they must look on those narrow hips—

But then had come the scintillating realization that soon _she’d_ be wearing boxer briefs. Sansa only had one pair of underwear, and that poor scrap needed to get washed soon. She’d be wearing _Jon’s_ underwear, cloth that had covered what she wanted to cover. Touch, cup, _suck_ —

It had to be the exhaustion, honest to gods. The fact she was trapped with the most gorgeous man alive who sometimes _held_ her, that was making her this ridiculous.

The urge though, strong as it was, dissipated as she spent hours crawling around on hard floors wrenching old vents shut. Dinner rolled through in silence, and this time Jon sat before her in the study without protest to let her at his shoulders.

On the third day they didn’t speak until late afternoon. Jon came back into the house with a bitter wind at his back to say: “Get dressed, the tree’s cleared. We need to start shoveling.”

So dress she did to go shovel snow until they reached the frozen earth. They went at it until the dogs were howling at the moon, and her entire body was throbbing. They went in, ate cold sandwiches, and were too weary to do more than pop pills and fall asleep.

She woke on the fourth day hurting so badly that she started crying.

Jon came up fumbling. “What? Fuck—fuck, Sansa? What’s wrong?” Big hands grabbed her and pulled her up like a limpet. She kept crying and a rough hand cupped her jaw. “Honey, I need you to start talking to me _right fucking now.”_

 _“It hurts.”_ She wailed, and then he was staggering upright with her yet in his arms.

Even through the tears, she could see the resolve on his face. “I got you sweetheart, hold on.”

And he carried her to the upstairs bathroom and started stripping her off. It shocked enough life into her that she was able to stagger vertical, shove him out the door, and do the rest herself before stumbling into the shower. The scalding heat eased out the cramps. It couldn’t do anything for the bruising she had inside, but she finally stopped crying and even felt lucid enough to be embarrassed.

She got out fast and toweled off, then took the bottle of pills Jon passed around the door. Once she was dressed, he caught her with a hand behind her neck. “Does anything feel wrong or worse than it did after the crash? I need you to tell me honest.”

She shook her head. “No, just muscle cramps. I promise.”

“Yeah?”

She merely nodded; the tears still felt too near to risk them.

He breathed out shakily. “Okay. I just need you to be alright for me, yeah? And if you aren’t, you tell me right away.”

Some unnamed desire began to clamor in her chest. “I will.”

But before she could do anything with it, or even properly identify it, he gave her a gentle squeeze and then headed to the shower himself. Twenty minutes later he forbade her from stepping a foot outside. Just to spite him, she climbed up with the drill instead and got to work hanging plastic sheeting and quilts to make their vestibule. Lady showed her approval by licking the plastic the moment it was hung.

Then, most startling of all, when the sun was low but still on the horizon—

Jon came back in. “It’s done.”

“It’s…” She couldn’t believe it. “Really?”

His face was milk white and the skin around his cheekbones had thinned. One of his fists was clenched so tight that his glove was creaking, but he promised: “Really.”

And she could have cried for sheer relief.

/~/~/~/

Sansa’s little shriek of delight nearly did him in. She rushed towards him, wrapped him in a hug, then just as quickly went flitting away to turn off lights and start lighting candles.

It left his head spinning. His entire body was _killing_ him, but still he got out of his gear to go and help. The candles were all carefully positioned in rings of three, never near curtains or anything flammable, and tucked where their light could cast the furthest.

Really, the whole bottom floor had been organized to precision. Bins with clothing carefully divided into groupings, games and cards all gathered on a low shelf, books slotted in every which place they could fit, all his boots in a neat row along the wall. She’d dragged a narrow side table and managed to fit it in the downstairs bathroom, and all their toiletries were nearly arranged but tightly packed from one end of it to the other.

Towels were in another two bins, blankets were stacked in the study, and then there were the sheets and quilts hanging over the doorways leading upstairs. “Godsdamn.”

“Does it look okay?” She asked.

“Great.” He answered faintly, and felt dumbstruck. He’d known this was happening, and yet everything was just…done. Just as good as anything he would have attempted, only organized ten times better. The number of people who’d ever impressed him like this could be counted on a single hand. “Somebody’s been a busy little bee, hmmmm?”

If she flushed, it was too dark now for him to tell. “We all did our parts.”

And gods, had she. “Busy-bee wanna come downstairs to do the honors, too?”

She stuck out her tongue and fuck, he wanted to _bite it_.

Once all the candles were set to Sansa’s exacting standards, they went to the kitchen and then headed down. Damp earth. Diesel. Shelves groaning with the weight of boxes and jars and tools aplenty. Somewhere behind them, he could hear the dogs whimpering at the top of the stairs. Lady couldn’t make them, and Ghost still hated the cellar on sheer principal of it once having a possum in it that had scared him.

Sansa cooed something back up to them. The dogs groused but quieted.

He felt the generator before they saw it; felt its steady rumble vibrating through his gut. He pulled her around the last shelf of canned goods and pointed. “Flip this, then push here.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. I’ll show you how to get it back up and running in a few days.” Just in case. Better that she know everything he could teach her now. If what Valley Base said ended up being true, and she was here for more than two weeks because the Vale was in a Kingdom-wide Emergency…if push came to shove and he had to go for supplies, he needed her to be able to take care of herself. Take care of the dogs.

Be safe.

Her hand reached out and then hesitated. She bit her lip. “If you’re sure?”

He was already walking to the bottom of the stairs to kill the last light. He grabbed a lantern, flipped it on, and then angled it on her. “I’m sure. Crowd’s waiting, Stark.”

“Everyone’s a critic.” And she flipped the switch and pressed it in. The generator coughed, kicked, then started humming down. Quieter, quieter, until there was nothing at all.

Above them, the winds sighed and swayed. A fridge whirred. The house settled low.

She came to him in the dark. “We did it. Well—you did it.”

That wouldn’t stand. “ _We_ did it, and I’m not hearin’ otherwise. Who’s the best team?”

She dug a toe in the dust and smiled shy. “We’re the best team.”

“Damn right we are, c’mon.” And he took her by the hand. His pulse jumped when she held on tighter and didn’t let go.

Hand in hand, heart in his throat, and very much together—they went back up the stairs and into the waiting light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, historical inaccuracies. Sansa the Good didn't kill Joffrey as we well know. But an issue I've found a lot with modern fic which puts canon as it's past, is that everyone in the modern times knows PERFECTLY every little detail that happened hundreds or thousands of years ago. And that, my friends, is a load of bull. Historical records and oral histories are an imperfect medium to transfer information. There are plenty of things we don't know about our history in the real world, points of huge contention historians still debate to this day, and things we probably think we are 100% right about which we are in fact 100% wrong.
> 
> Histories should always be imperfect if you want them to be realistic.
> 
> So in this case, I imagine records of Cersei accusing Sansa and Tyrion of the murder were more wide spread and survived to modern day. Current Historians probably know about the Tyrells being the big plotters on it, they just also think Sansa was working with them, too. And TBH, Sansa the Good is a near mythic figure by this point, and over the centuries the North never turned down the chance to make her the baddest of the badasses when they could.
> 
> (Also lol, I bet Sansa the Good wiped the original Petyr Baelish from history, so he doesn't even get a mention. Get rekt, Petey.)
> 
> Children of the Weirding -- I like to think original Bran of this universe started a sort of Priestess/Priesthood for the Old Gods among humans instead of becoming King, which was stupid (I don't care if GRRM does this in the books...it'll be stupid there too). The new Children are not quite proselytizers or anything like our priests and pastors, but there is definitely a lot of ritual built up around them. Modern day worship of the Old Gods is sort of like a very organized form of Paganism.
> 
> The thing about beeswax candles is true for our world. They were used near exclusively by the Church (and the wealthy nobility) because they burned cleanly compared to tallow, and therefore didn't stain-up the joint. A lot of monks and priests raised their own bees to make them. 
> 
> Anyhow guys, sorry for the long wait. I started working half-days again over a month ago, and was also sleeping 12-14 hours a day, so that didn't leave time for much else. Then...well, to give away where I'm living, the Twin Cities started burning and shit got very, very real here for about a week. The stress was so bad it set off another episode in my COVID-y lungs, so I ended up laying around and gasping for another three days. So yeah, I'll try to be quicker, but I'm starting full-time work again this week, and that might wipe me out for awhile.
> 
> But I hope you guys stick around.
> 
> Now, next time: Jon and Sansa get some well deserved rest, cuddling for body heat ensues, the dogs remain cute as heck, and Jonsa heads out on a little scouting expedition...


	9. Sympathetic Trigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for this chapter be to: [asongofsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asongofsnow/pseuds/asongofsnow), who made the phenomenal mood board that now sits at the beginning of this story, and got me off my butt to finish this chapter. It is on her tumblr of the same name, and y'all should go reblog it. Just saying.
> 
> Thanks also be to [Norrlands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norrlands/pseuds/Norrlands) for encouraging me while I was very, very sick these past weeks.
> 
> And thanks again to [Autistic_Ace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autistic_Ace) who always edits my chapters and presses me into using grammar and commas properly so I don't blind you poor folk while reading.

She woke to Lady snuffling in her face. “No.”

Lady snuffled even louder. Ghost whined at her back.

From beneath a mountain of quilts, Jon groaned. “Took’em out at dawn. Yr’turn.”

She couldn’t remember the dawn. Could barely remember last night—shuffling upstairs after the generator and straight to their beds. Quilts. Fumbling hands. A complete blackout after.

She had to take a closer look at his shoulders today; she hadn’t been caring for him as well as she should. Days too long, body too tired. But that was still no excuse. Jon deserved the best that she could give him. Gods above, she already knew how much he was sacrificing for her.

Her insides ached with the effort, but rise she did. “I got it.” Just in time for the air to come at her like a knife. She took a sucking breath, chest juddering, and nearly dove right back into her cocoon. “ _Gods_.”

The quilts shifted. “You’kay?” Rumbling. Rasping. And in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to climb under those blankets with him. Plaster herself to his chest and hear that voice from the _source._ It’d be warm, so, so warm. And maybe he’d open his arms? Hold her as tightly to him as he had in the kitchen?

It took actual effort to stop herself from trying. “It’s just the cold,” And she pressed a palm to his shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”

She didn’t need to tell him twice. By the time she had a second sweater on and had stepped into a pair of Jon’s slippers, the man was fast asleep and snoring. He’d never done that before. She clicked her tongue and touched a hand to Lady’s brow. “Poor thing, he’s all tuckered out.”

Lady ruffed.

“We should do something nice for him.” She whispered, and both dogs perked at that. It was decided. “Let’s go.”

It was even colder out in the hall, and she led the dogs to the backdoor so she could grab a coat before stepping outside. The second the door was open the dogs exploded past her. It was later than she’d thought. Very late; past noon already with the sunlight drifting low.

She pulled the coat—one of Jon’s—together, and shoved her ungloved hands deep into its pockets. It smelled like him. Evergreen. Woodsmoke. Made her ache.

She shivered and burrowed deeper in. She could just imagine how Jon would fuss at her going out without hat or gloves. He’d go inside to get them for her, probably wouldn’t have even let her out the house. She allowed herself to ponder that, Jon grabbing her by the elbow or maybe the wrist. Grip firm, grip _hard_. A smirk on that mouth. _No you don’t, honey._ And maybe he’d push her against a wall. A table. Nudge her legs apart with a knee until he could press his thigh against…no. Scratch that. Maybe he’d bend her over that table, work her pants down, leave them half-on and her half-trapped so he could properly punish—

She flung a palm over her eyes. “Oh my _gods.”_

Out in the yard, the dogs rustled and spun. She dropped her hand. “Not you, sweet babies. You’re absolutely perfect.”

Lady made a rumbling noise, ran for an assuring pat on the head, and then threw herself back into the snow. The dogs hopped around energetically and then held a contest to see which of them could flip snow highest with their snouts. Ghost was an expert at it. Lady kept trying and failing, only managing to land snow on her face instead of scattering it high into the air. Sansa had to cover her mouth to stop herself from cackling.

With one last wet _plop_ right into her eyes, Lady let out an indecorous huff and slunk back to the door.

Sansa rubbed her ears. “Don’t be a sore loser, bunny.”

Lady just grumbled.

Ghost immediately shook the snow from his head and came after them. Sansa watched on, amused, as he began nosing at Lady’s neck and then her face. Lady refused to even look at him. With a miserable sound, Ghost went off digging into the nearest snowbank.

“Oooh,” Her amusement grew. “Playing hard to get, I see. Sneaky.”

Lady just lifted her nose higher into the air.

Sansa leaned down. “Between you and me, I think you’ve already got him hooked.”

Lady’s expression became one of utter feminine smugness.

Within seconds, Ghost was rushing back with a long stick clenched between his teeth. It still had pine needles on one end and had clearly been secreted away from the great tree dismembering of the past few days. With all ceremony, Ghost nearly shoved Sansa right off the porch so he could stand in front of Lady to lay it valiantly at her feet.

Lady eyes darted down just a smidge. Ghost nudged it closer. There was a snort and then Lady, ever so delicately, bent to pick it up.

Ghost perked at that, tail wagging—only for Lady to sprint away with the branch.

Never in her life had Sansa seen such shock upon a dog’s face. She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh no.”

Ghost stood there, stunned, until with an almighty bark he went tearing after Lady. They ran, circled, dodged—and she began to see the shape of it. Even with Lady’s bad leg, Ghost mysteriously kept letting her stay out of his reach. At last Lady slowed and let Ghost catch the other end of the stick. They started tugging it between them; playfully growling and even nipping at the other’s tail when the opportunity presented.

And gods, she wished Jon was there beside her to watch it. To laugh. To commiserate over Ghost’s shocked expression and chastise Lady for all her trickery. She wanted. She wanted…

For Jon to share everything that she saw. That when she woke in the mornings, there’d be no yearnings in her heart because she’d already be under the blankets with him. That she’d know the feel of his skin, the breadth of his arms. What the underside of his jaw felt like beneath the searching press of her mouth.

Her hand was empty now, but she remembered Jon taking it in the cellar, the roughness of his palm and the sureness of his grip. He had hands that fixed things; tore them down and built them right back up.

Gentle hands. Good ones, and ones she wanted to know. It was a fool thing, but maybe she’d always be a fool: to want to map every scar and dip into the valley of his knuckles. Trace the lifeline in his palm and see if their heartlines dipped in the same arc.

Want want _want_. It was the only thing of which she seemed capable. No matter if it was smart or prudent or even deserving. Jon was kind and sensible and so very lovely. He was also a man, and she the only woman he was stuck with. Even if she could get him interested…what would that even mean?

Convenience? A quick fling? A _better this than nothing,_ as long as they were here?

She remembered Edric Dayne telling her that—for men—sex was like pizza. Even when it was bad it was still very good. After that shining little tidbit, she’d doubted every encounter she’d had with him. Always wondering if the nice things he was saying were just lies to keep her buttered up. That maybe, secretly, he thought that she _was_ bad and that remark had just been the first hint.

She’d never been able to shake it. Even among all the college nonsense and self-absorption that had ultimately split them up, she’d always been able to pinpoint the exact moment the end had come for them.

And gods, she was already so far past wanting a mere tumble with Jon Snow. She cared too damn much what he thought of her. She wanted him to think she was _good_ , think she was special. Wanted him to want…

Something that she couldn’t have.

Her mind was still shying away from it, but if she wanted to stay in her industry and within her specialty, whatever job she’d have would be far from Jon Snow. From his hands, his arms, his shoulders. From the crow’s feet at his eyes and the crooked slant of his grin.

This time when she sank into his coat, her mind stayed quiet. She breathed slow. Breathed frost. “Damn it.” Breathed sharp while her eyes burned.

Because like it or not, even knowing what was to come, she couldn’t stop herself from _wanting._

/~/~/~/

His eyes came open to the sight of Sansa stoking the fire; sparks dancing in the hearth and haloing her form in light.

His eyes also opened to the sight of her bent over with her arse nearly in his face. Even in sweatpants, it was a _sight._

He groaned.

Sansa turned around, expression strange. “You’re up.”

 _Fuck_. Had she finally realized the sort of disrespectful, randy idiot she was trapped with? His throat spasmed. “What time is it?”

She shrugged. “No idea.” And then wiggled her hands to shake the sleeves of his sweater down. “No watch, see?”

That struck him as a silly thing not to have, and those delicate little wrists looked awful lonely without something on them. And since it’d be a very, very bad idea to have that something be his hand clasped tight around to press them over her head while he fucked her into the nearest mattress—

He blinked so hard that he saw spots. He was, quite possibly, far more exhausted than he’d realized.

“Hi.” He answered dumbly.

“Hi.” She chirped back. “I made you brunch.” And whatever strangeness had been in her expression, it fled quick.

“You mean us.” And she’d better.

She rolled her eyes. “I mean us, wait here.” And trotted off. It seemed that she hadn’t realized what a horny bastard he was, at least. That was good.

Except that—damn it all—he wanted her to realize. Wanted her to _know_. All the things he’d do for her including plucking down the stars from the sky. Show her a good time, show her _plenty_ of good times. Give her everything sweet that anyone had ever thought to deny her. He groaned again, and this time it wasn’t for Sansa Stark’s admittedly delightful backside.

He was going to the deepest hell, and he didn’t know if it was his heart or his cock that was going to get him there first.

He heard Sansa returning with the dogs, and a moment later there she was nudging the door open with a plate in either hand. Ghost rushed to him, wanting pets and then to sniff or maybe even have a nibble of whatever was on his plate. He gave Ghost a quick shove. He loved his dog, he truly did, but like hell was Ghost getting a Sansa-made brunch before he did. A man had to have _something._

A thought struck him. “I thought we agreed we were staying in bed all day.” And didn’t _that_ come out wrong.

It hardly fazed her. “We agreed that you were staying in bed.” And she hovered the plate over his head. “Nothing about me. You ready?”

He rolled upright. For the third time that morning he was groaning, and for increasingly worse reasons. Every joint in his body seemed to have locked. His sad carcass was a _rictus_. “Holy shitting Stranger.”

“Oh Jon.” She sighed like it broke her heart, like he was pitiable.

Except being pitiable got her shelving one plate, putting the other in his hands, and then climbing behind him on the mattress to start rubbing his shoulders. She’d made him a fry-up, hot and greasy and delicious, and her fingers were digging in and feeling _fantastic._

He nearly proposed marriage on the spot.

Instead, he shoved a handful of bacon into his mouth and lamented that he didn’t have a ring. Also lamented that he still had enough common sense not to go digging for his soldering kit and a bit of silver to bloody well _try._

_You met her a week ago. And she’s too good for you, you dumb fuck._

“Hey,” He said. “Hey, enough of that. Your food’ll get cold. My shoulders can keep awhile.”

She clicked her tongue. “Likely story.” But still got up to get her plate and sit across from him. She was directly in front of the fire again and the hearth burnished her like living flame. A man shouldn’t be tested like this, and yet here he was. He wondered if she could find a job nearby. Anything within three-hundred miles—he’d driven farther for less. But how to ask?

She scooped a bit of cheesy hash browns into her mouth. Chewed. Queried: “How’re you feeling?”

He snorted. That seemed self evident.

Her eyes narrowed. “Answer the question.”

“If I say bad, are you going to tie me to the bed?” _Holy fucking shit, what is wrong with you?_

But Sansa didn’t blink. Her chin tilted, eyes dipping low and then rising slow as molasses. “Sorry Ranger, no headboard. I’ll have to trust you to _behave_.”

And something _scalding_ dropped right into his groin. He nearly choked on his bacon.

Her cheeks went rosy, and then quite abruptly her gaze flitted away. She shoved another forkful into her mouth, then swatted Lady gently when the dog pushed a long nose in the direction of her mum’s plate.

And here he was: a man poleaxed. “So. Uh.” Had she meant… _had_ she meant? Could he? Should he? But he wanted to make sure his heart wasn’t getting ripped out first. “Um, I don’t want to bother you about this.”

She swallowed. “It’s okay, bother me.”

He scratched at his knee. “I’m sorry about your job, but have you thought at all about what you’re doing next? Just curious.”

She blew out a breath and stared him in the face again. “I mean—a little. It won’t be easy though.”

“That place you were at can’t be the only auction house, right?”

“Right.” She answered. “There’s the big eight. Hightower, the Spider, Sunspear, Mockingbird, Arryn, Lion of Lannisport, Buckler & Errol, and Manderly's in White Harbor.”

He perked at that. White Harbor was close. White Harbor was _good._

“But.” She continued, and his food fell like a stone in his gut. “I think…I think I told you Mockingbird has the lowest requirements for experience, right? There’s no way I could even put the foot in the door at Sunspear. And Hightower and Arryn—” She shook her head. “Too blueblood. You have no idea. And the House of the Spider was Mr. Baelish’s competitor in KL. They’d never take anyone from us—from Mockingbird anymore. I think Mr. Baelish sent spies there a decade back, it wasn’t pretty.” And her shoulders rolled into a shrug.

He didn’t want to be obvious. “But the others?”

“Buckler & Errol is a small outfit. They focus a lot on the Storm Kings. Weapons, pre-Andal artifacts. Not my area. And Lions…” She squirmed in her seat. “I think they’re distant Lannister cousins.”

He felt himself scowl. “And fuck them.”

She laughed, but the sound was brittle in her mouth. “Yeah.”

But that still left—

This sigh of hers was a sad one. “White Harbor. They’re lean too. More Northern artifacts, but they focus a lot on imports from Essos too. Remnants from the Good Queen; she had excellent relations both trade and otherwise, so the North has a lot floating around.” She shrugged again. “But my specialties overlap a lot with Leona Manderly. I’ve met her, she’s amazing and so, _so_ knowledgeable.” She darted him a glance. “She’s the owner’s daughter-in-law.”

“Ah.”

And her eyes flicked away. “Last I heard, she’s training up one of her daughters to follow in her footsteps. It’d be a dream to learn under her, but…”

“Yeah.” It deflated him. And yet: “They’d still be lucky to have you.”

She shot him a sad smile. “Maybe.” And took another bite from her plate. He accepted the sign for what it was and let the subject drop. No need to stress her out or make her sad. He never wanted to make her sad.

He’d rather stick his head in the fireplace first.

They ate quick after that, not talking about much important but stories of their dogs and realizing they’d been to the same ski slopes in the Lonely Hills. That cheered her some. Eventually she got up and reached for his plate.

She’d been waiting on him all morning. “I can—” And he made to rise

One slippered foot caught his knee and pressed down. He stared up at her, slack-jawed. He’d never had a fetish for being stepped on, but…

“Not one more step.” She ordered.

He could definitely be convinced to change his ways.

Wordless, he handed her his plate. She took it with a haughty sniff. “Wait here; not one move. I have something for you—the dogs and I decided you deserve something nice for all your hard work.”

Rubbing his shoulders and feeding him wasn’t nice already? “You and the dogs, huh?”

“They had very strong opinions,” She censured. “Now _wait.”_

If she kept using a tone like that on him, he’d sit here even if the house was falling down. Though admittedly, right after that fantasy was conjured, his libido was considering that maybe after a bit of ordering around, he might take her over his knee for being so impertinent—tart little thing that she was.

This time when he dropped his head into his hands, Ghost was there to gently lick his forearm. “I _know.”_ He groaned. “I’m awful. You don’t have to tell me.”

Ghost whimpered. Jon wanted to join him.

Sansa returned to the door and this time with a baking dish. Divine smells. Divine sights. His jaw dropped once more. “What?”

She was pink in the cheeks again. Perfect. “It’s just cinnamon rolls.”

“But I don’t have cinnamon rolls?”

And yet he did, because here she was sitting knee to knee with him and sharing both dish and napkins between them. He put a hand under to steady it, and she did the same. Their fingers overlapped.

He wanted to take her by the hand. Take her by the heart. Take her _underneath_ him.

“There was yeast.” She answered, as if that was somehow supposed to answer how she’d conjured him baked goods on the spot.

He shook his head. Blinked, then blinked again to steady himself. “Sansa, anyone ever tell you that you work miracles?”

She was even pinker now. Biting her lip, fingers fluttering under his. “Never.”

“Sansa, honey.” And he showed his teeth. “You work _miracles_.”

/~/~/~/

“We need to save some of these.” He ordered, even as he cut his fourth offering out of the dish. Frosting dripped down his hand and then his arm. He carelessly licked it away. His eyes caught hers at the last moment, tongue curling at the bone of his wrist.

Her face flamed as an answering inferno lit between her legs. She was absolutely going to _die._ “Sure.” Was her stunned response.

He must have bought it, because he stopped licking and took another bite of the roll in his hand and groaned.

The frosting was white. She wondered at dripping some of it onto her chest to see if he’d be willing to lick that away, too. She tried not to think of how she could get such a sticky white mess on her in the first place. The sorts of things that could cause it and whether she’d be on her knees for it.

She was a bad, terrible, no good person.

She still watched Jon’s mouth as he ate, though.

“Look,” He said. “I was going to say you don’t ever need to repay me for anything—but I can’t. Gods, these are _so_ _good.”_

If the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, she wondered if the best way into her pants was via compliments. It just might be, especially if those compliments were coming from Jon Snow.

“Okay.” He said, sucking his fingers clean and damn near giving her a conniption. “I got something you can use, just a sec.”

She could barely remember the common tongue. “Use for what?” To get her clothes off as quickly as possible? She could use _that._

But he didn’t answer, just went poking into the shelves and shifting tools. He uncovered something and made a pleased noise that had her wiggling. It also had her considering sliding a hand between her thighs to quell the ache. He sat back down, but this time it was beside her; hip to hip and thigh to thigh.

“Which hand do you use?”

Her brain skipped. “ _What?”_

“For a watch.” He asked, seemingly oblivious to where her mind had just been.

 _Stop it._ “Left.”

“Give it here then.”

She couldn’t resist. Her left arm went out to him, trembling. He took it gently, fingertips pushing hotly inside her wrist. He had to feel it: her pulse. That she was running double-time. His fingers skimmed her as the strap came on. It was a bulky thing and probably one of his.

He pulled it tight and then his fingers rested just a moment. Rough. Barely brushing her forearm. “There, it should be set already. And if you push here—” He maneuvered her. Their faces were so close together that if she leaned even an inch more, his curls would be brushing her forehead.

A single inch, and her mouth would find his.

“—how you turn on the compass. It’s got GPS lock too, so keep it on for me, would you?”

She could taste his breath on hers; the heat of it in her mouth. “So you can find me?”

“Yeah,” He breathed. “So I can find you. Ghost too, it’s real important to him that you don’t get lost.”

And her eyes lifted to meet his. “We can’t disappoint Ghost.”

“Naw.” His throat worked, and his eyes were on hers. Dark. _Dark._ “Sansa…”

But at hearing his name, Ghost was leaping up and bulling his head between them. He looked delighted, wriggling in place and already looking for pets from any corner.

She glanced to Jon again, heart in her throat—but he was already leaning away and reaching down to pat a fluffy head. “Yeah, yeah, you mooch. We won’t forget you.”

She reached to pat Ghost’s flank, not willing to risk their hands crossing again. She didn’t know anymore. They were stuck here, and she didn’t _know._ What was right? What was smart? What wouldn’t leave her heart cleaved like an open wound?

Lady approached them too, jealous and looking for love. They fully separated then, but Jon’s watch stayed heavy on her wrist. Marked her out. Maybe she was a fool to think it. Maybe he just didn’t realize.

But when she looked over, the muscles in his forearms were corded tight.

/~/~/~/

Sansa cleaned up; wasn’t hearing nothing from him about helping. And if he was being honest, he was already tired again. Already aching and not just for her. He laid down and didn’t even stay awake long enough to see her come back.

He woke at nightfall and found Sansa curled asleep in her own bed. He didn’t try to wake her; she deserved the rest. He stoked the fire in the study, went to do the same in the front room, and then do it a third time in the kitchen. He’d told Sansa they wouldn’t try anything for a week, but truth was they’d need to haul in more firewood tomorrow. They didn’t have another day and night’s supply in the house, and gods, even the ambient air was beginning to _bite._

He called the dogs, then had to go coax Lady out from under Sansa’s arm. He could understand the desire to stay under Sansa Stark, but needs must.

The dogs circled about outside, did their business, then found some stick half in a snowbank and started playing tug of war. He let them at it awhile, but eventually called them back in. He hadn’t even put on a coat and was glad Sansa wasn’t there to see it.

Little sad to miss out on the chastising, though.

They headed in and he was already dragging again. He grabbed a few meal bars and bottles of water. Ate two, drank half, then took the rest to leave by Sansa in case she woke in the night hungry or thirsty.

It was the least he could do.

/~/~/~/

The next day was a slow one but for Jon forcing them outside to get firewood. She complained bitterly, but knew she’d be complaining even more if the fires went out.

They used sleds and took five trips; stocked up until tiredness won out. There was a lot of lifting and carrying involved, and she wondered if she could leverage that into another excuse to touch Jon’s shoulders. She was only doing it out of the goodness of her heart—honest to the Father.

“Nap time.” Jon sighed when they were done, and she couldn’t disagree. They slept most of the afternoon and came back to surface around dusk.

She went to the bathroom, shivering as she took off Jon’s sweaters only long enough to pull on one of his thermals and some long-johns before getting redressed. When she went back out, there was frost inside the front windows.

“Jon.”

He grunted. “I see it.” And dragged fingers through his beard. “Think you can hold out through Saturday? We can restart the generators Sunday; get the house refilled with heat. Take some showers. Run some laundry.”

This was the ninth day she’d known Jon Snow. “Of course.” And she’d tough out anything that he asked of her.

“We’ll be okay. Might need to bundle a bit, though.” And he grinned at her. “Maybe I’ll burrito you up again.”

“No you _won’t_.” She gasped.

“You were warm though, weren’t you?”

“That’s not the point!” She frankly wasn’t sure what the point was, only that Jon fussing over her and wrapping her tight and helpless, made her weak in the knees.

Jon just hummed and refused to confirm or deny, the absolute monster. “Might wanna go scouting then.”

“Scout what?”

“Take the snowmobile and go see what some of the westerly routes look like. I want to know what our exfil points are.” He shrugged. “Nothing big, just a looksee.”

But it sent a jolt of fear through her. “By yourself?”

He must have heard it, because his head turned abruptly. “Yeah, it’s not a big deal.”

“I don’t…” She’d been alone in the house before, but that had always been with Jon just outside. She’d known she could go to him. Before she was cognizant of it, her hands were clasped. Wringing. “But we’re fine here, you said that…”

“We are. Sansa, we are.” And he had her by the shoulder, hand so hot and broad. “We’re safe here, I promise. But I just need to check. We might have people coming up or us going down later. We’d be better off knowing.”

“I could go with.” She blurted.

And his brow furrowed. “I need somebody to stay with the dogs.”

“I…I know.” Her hands hurt. There was no meeting his eyes. This was…she had to apologize, to agree, to swallow this scrabbling terror and bear it down.

But Jon interrupted. “Look—alright. Maybe the first time should be short. Four or five hours; don’t overextend. Dogs can stay alone that long.” He paused. “In separate rooms.”

Her head shot up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He agreed. “I can show you the scenery. Besides, it’s always nicer to have someone with.”

She wasn’t sure she believed that, but she still felt warm inside. Warm enough to ward off the frost. Warm enough to melt the fear. “That sounds lovely.”

And his mouth quirked up. “Then it’s a plan.”

/~/~/~/

That night she went to bed shivering. The fire was at her back as Jon had positioned her closest to the hearth, but when she slipped beneath her sheets and the quilts, each layer was frigidly cold. He stoked the fire one last time, but its heat seemed distant. Seemed to wither as it hit the air.

Even through the layers of her clothes, the heat of her body leeched and yet never seemed to warm the bed around her. Jon settled, drifted, and then snored a little. Another day and she thought he’d be well enough to sleep quiet again. But she didn’t mind it—she liked knowing Jon was near.

Lady laid at her side, and she curled into the dog. Made herself smaller. Smaller.

The fire’s light was dimming. She was shivering. Smaller yet; knees nearly to her chest. It was so _cold_. Like it had been in the car. Crushing down, crushing her chest, crushing crushing crushing—

She couldn’t remember sleeping nor waking. All she knew was that she was shuddering; breath rattling in her chest like the gully winds. Body like wreckage, snarled all around. And it hurt. It hurt. It _hurt._

“Honey, hey.” A hand on her back. “You alright?”

But she was choking on her own breath. The hand came into the blankets and found her hands clawed to her chest. “ _Shit.”_

A shadow flew to the fire and sent it roaring. It didn’t stop the pain, but it felt like waking. “Jon?”

“Stay under the blankets, Sansa. Stay right there.” He left the fire’s light. Something heavy kicked across the floor and then he was piling more and more weight on her.

All his quilts. All his blankets.

She couldn’t tell him to stop, words breaking in her mouth as her teeth began to chatter.

“You should have told me you were this cold, holy Mother—” And then Jon was there pushing Ghost across her feet and lifting the blankets up. It was colder, air escaping, but then—

A furnace was at her back. Jon’s arms came around her and his palms smoothed across her hands; over and over until they were soft as caramel left in the sun. He tucked her arms to her chest, then tucked her back to where his heart pumped steady. He held her; arms locked like rebar over hers.

“Had to do this for you in the truck, you know? Don’t scare me like this. My heart can’t take it.”

She didn’t remember. Didn’t understand. “M’sorry.”

He just rubbed his cheek against hers. “Told you, you don’t ever have to be.”

Lady at her front, Ghost at their feet, Jon at her back pulling her legs down so he could tuck his knees behind them. “There we go.” His breath washed her neck, warm as a summer flood.

The pain was lessening, and her shaking eased. Lady nosed at her face and whined.

He rubbed a palm at her sternum. “Just breathe, you’re okay. You don’t have to think about it.”

She swallowed what felt like a mile of barbed wire. “I was scared in the car. I know I should have been brave, I know that—”

“You’re the bravest person I know.”

She was melting into his arms. One of his legs pushed between hers and she squeezed onto it. The sheets were warming as she sank in. No telling where anything ended or began, but she didn’t have to.

Jon had her now. She was safe.

And she slept easy.

/~/~/~/

There was something soft and sweet in his arms, gentle as a dream. He nuzzled in and woke just a little. Waves of red hair. Soft little breaths puffing against his neck. A precious thing carefully tucked into the walls of his body.

He woke a little more. Sansa had turned around sometime in the night. Face in his shoulder, hands soft and folded up against his chest. He wished he could feel her skin on his, but this was enough. More than.

But maybe he was dreaming because things this gentle—things he wanted this badly—never came to him.

He skimmed a hand up her back, fingers tracing her spine. The notches felt real. So did her chest rising and falling with his.

He woke, and Sansa was in his arms: warm and feather-soft after he’d nearly killed her last night.

His breath expelled: “Fuck.”

Last night had taken another five years off his life. He should have asked, should have fucking _noticed._ This wasn’t his first rodeo; he knew that after a bout of hypothermia people were always more susceptible to a backslide. But godsfuck, he hadn’t noticed, too much in his own head about her and yet not _about her._ How quiet she’d gotten. That’d she’d been shivering even getting into bed. Waking to find her wheezing and numb and so damn afraid—

He’d known cold, known terror. Didn’t _want_ to know. He wished he could draw it out of her, but he’d never been able to draw it out of himself. Feeling her hands all snarled up like the tendons would calcify and her bones would snap clean…

He shuddered at it. At the movement, Sansa sighed breathily, murmuring something so sweetly into his skin. She shifted and settled back into his arms with her face against his neck. He did his best not to grip her so tightly he’d squeeze the air out of her.

She deserved better. So much, much better.

He’d kick the generator back on today. Forget all this—he’d get her down the mountain before running out of diesel. For the rest of the winter he’d have to cope; find some way to get supplies up here. _Something._

It didn’t matter as long as he got her out of this.

He wondered if he should slip from the sheets before waking her. Give her space and go get the electric blanket since he’d be kicking on the rest of the house soon enough. But even with that thought, he was leaning back in and holding her all the tighter.

She smelled like his shampoo and had one smooth cheek pressed against his neck. Skin to skin to _skin._ Her lashes swept a long shadow, each scarlet and delicate as filigree.

She was the loveliest thing in all of creation, and he was too fucking weak. Just another minute, another five. Whatever his greedy body could claw for itself to feed his heart to survive the winter.

He got twenty minutes until she woke. She blinked slowly, steadily. Burrowed into him just a little—made his heart _squeeze—_ until she realized where she was like he knew she would. Then she tensed up, like he also knew she would.

Some things were inevitable, and he started unwinding his arms. “Sansa—”

She bodily clutched on to him. “What happened?”

“You got—” He wetted his mouth, hands fucking _useless_ where they stayed clutched on her back. “You got cold, so I had to—”

“Right.” She interrupted before loosening her chokehold. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you like this.”

“I should be the one apologizing. Fuck, I should have noticed. I’ll be turning on the generator today. We’ll keep it on, I shouldn’t have—”

“What? No!” And the chokehold returned with a vengeance as she nearly climbed on top of him. “What are you talking about? Just give me a coat, I’ll be fine.”

“Sans—”

“No!” She hissed. “We are following the plan. We did not break our backs these last few days to screw it up now! So you listen to me Jon Snow, I’m sorry that I caused a fuss, but I won’t be having you wasting that effort. Got it?”

He felt like a wild animal. “I need to take care of you!”

“You need to take care of you! You think I don’t know how you’ve been sacrificing yourself to give me a better chance? I’m not going to ask that of you!”

He hauled himself half upright, but it only brought Sansa up with him along with a cold burst of air. The dogs went skittering. He yanked the quilts tighter around them then snapped: “That’s the choice I get to make! I’m the fucking professional here, and I’m not letting anything happen to you!”

“Then stick to the plan and give me a bloody coat, it’s not like I’ve never seen cold weather!”

“I’m not letting you freeze to death—”

“And you don’t have to! There are thermal sleeping bags in the gear room. And you’re right here, aren’t you?”

“I’m—” Sitting her up like this had also set her precariously on his lap. He was half a moment away from getting hard under her. He was also half a breath from losing his fucking marbles. “What?”

“This is all—” She gave him what was quite possibly the most threatening full body squeeze of his life. Arms, shoulders, legs, _hips._ He felt like a rabbit in the grip of a python. “—very warm and cozy. I’m sure you can manage another night of it for _my_ sake.”

“Don’t you fucking threaten me with—” A damn good time he’d cut off a limb for. And if she shimmied down even an inch—goddsman. He was definitely hard now. He tried to not be obvious with the hands he was getting under her legs to lift her as he snarled: “Fine.”

“ _Fine.”_ She spat. “We’re agreed.”

“Excruciatingly.”

“I’m glad we had this chat.”

“Just go put on a fucking coat.”

“ _Gladly_.” And then just like a python, she slithered out of his lap, wrapped herself in a quilt, and stormed from the room. The dogs looked at him like he was the greatest idiot this side of the mountain before following her.

Was he angry? Frightened? Turned on? All of the above? He palmed his cock absently and gave it half a stroke.

“ _Fuck_.”

All of the above it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which it keeps getting colder, and yet somehow keeps heating up...my oh my, whatever shall happen next?
> 
> Also: in which Ghost finally gets some revenge for all the cockblocking. Get rekt, humans! Who's not getting laid now???
> 
> Anyhow, thank you everyone for your patience on this. After posting the last chapter, my lung problems transitioned into heart problems. I had to go to the ER at one point because I and the nurseline genuinely thought I was having a heart attack. BPM clocking up to 156 and stabbing pains in my left arm and left side of my neck...well, you'd think it a heart attack, wouldn't you??? Turns out--no. But what it was remains unclear, so I've gone under a lot of tests. I've gotten better in the last two weeks though, so maybe it'll just fix itself without me ever knowing what was up.
> 
> Anyhow people, don't get COVID!!!! It sucks and will not check you before it wrecks you.
> 
> Now tune in next time for: Sansa and Jon making up, even MORE cuddling, the scouting expedition we didn't get to finally happening, and another heated exchange...


	10. Glide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being a frustration. I am sad to report the "field trip" is YET another chapter away, because I can't stop myself from sprawling on this one. I got up to 7,700 words with my planned end point still far out of reach, and since I don't want chapters to be massively outsized compared to each other, no 10,000 word behemoth for y'all.
> 
> Instead, this had been split in two so I can get the first part out to you. And good news at least--next chapter is already 3,000 words in...so it may be ready soon? Hopes high.
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for your patience, and I hope you all enjoy this chapter!
> 
> (side note: "choppers" are heavy duty leather ski mitts. Wearing them gives you all the manual dexterity of a penguin flipper. The game of Life is a board game that simulates "life" from school to retirement. I'm going from my childhood version, which was the 60's version I played at my grandma's house that still had the Poor Farm and everything, lol. Also in this verse Secondary School = High School. Lastly, the modern Targs of this verse of Dany/Rhaella/Viserys have a last name of "Snow". I didn't feel like bending over backwards to get Jon's last name squared, and frankly, I came up with a pretty cool backstory that will be shared at some point on how these Valyrian descendants have a Northern last name. Anyhow. Onwards.)

She stayed outside with the dogs for near half an hour. Not because she was angry—though gods above _was she_ —but that it took that long for the sub-zero temperatures to cool her so she didn’t stomp right back into the house to climb Jon Snow like a tree. That, or yell at him some more.

It was one or the other.

The man just got under her skin so badly. Got her angry and riled and _invested_ , and then ready to mount him on the spot if she hadn’t been so spitting mad.

And gods, the way his thighs had felt under hers. The strength in them; as if he’d drive himself up into her with a single thrust—

_Get a bloody grip._

She wasn’t getting a grip, just burning up. The way his eyes had blazed at her, it’d been as if she’d finally found the flame in all that smoke. She’d wanted to chase it, but truthfully, the whole thing had spooked her. Instead she’d uselessly rushed out here: head ringing, mouth dry, and cunt _aching_. She wasn’t sure what she’d been seeing in him, and even less sure what the hell it was she’d been _doing_. He just wound her up and up, and then sent her spinning off like a dervish.

And in all of that…she may have just bullied Jon into using his body for her own benefit. It was absolutely wretched of her. They had the thermal sleeping bags, they did, so he didn’t have to…

Every moment since she’d met Jon, had been spent watching him doing his damndest to care for them while working himself to the bone. She just wished he’d keep even an ounce of that care for himself. Jon deserved good, deserved to rest his body and his head, and not waste all this diesel just to make her a little more comfortable.

She hated it; hated that he could hurt for even a moment on her behalf. But it killed her too, because she knew he’d been hurt for her already. And gods, it was humiliating being so poorly aware of herself that it’d forced him to climb into bed with her. Maybe he liked her fine, but had he wanted the woman he was trapped with to plaster herself to him like that?

Her breath came choppy. Maybe it wasn’t just the horniness and anger keeping her outside; embarrassment had its own special sting.

Truth was, she felt bad for yelling at him. Not bad for why she was angry, never that, but even a righteous fury was no excuse to raise her voice. They could have talked about it like adults, but she’d been so hurt for him while being so godsadamn _hot_ for him, that’d she’d—

She’d lost her head. No arguing it. Her next breath came easier, and she unwound her arms where they had been firmly clamped around her ribcage.

Despite how _stimulated_ the whole thing had made her feel, she never wanted to fight with Jon or make him feel badly. She wasn’t sure if she had that sort of power over his feelings, but she wasn’t going to avoid repenting for her bad behavior either.

She was better than this. Or at least—she wanted to be.

After everything he’d done for her, yelling at him had been no repayment. And she’d certainly tell him he didn’t have to _cuddle_ with her tonight no matter how badly she wanted it.

She shook her head. Made a face. The dogs barked at her.

“I know.” She sighed, and they quickly scurried over to sit at her feet. “So,” She asked them like a general about to lead her troops. “What do you think about Operation Forgiveness, does that sound like a plan?”

Ghost woofed. Lady swished her tail against the snow.

Good enough. “Then let’s get to work.”

/~/~/~/

He wasn’t checking the windows every two minutes while cooking, he wasn’t.

He checked the windows. “Damnit.”

The dogs were still running around like madmen. Sansa had stopped pacing and was probably on the back porch again. If he had x-ray vision to stare through the walls at her, he bloody well would have.

Was she mad at him? Well, she’d clearly _been_ mad at him, so that wasn’t in doubt. The real question: was she still mad?

He frowned. Gods knew, she damn well should be. He still wasn’t sure if she’d noticed him getting hard under her, but with how he’d sworn at her—that was a shit move. No defense. Sure, he’d imagined swearing at her plenty, but that was usually in a much filthier context with a great number of praises thrown into the mix.

He had to apologize. What had happened in the study was no way to talk to a girl, especially since _she’d_ been the one having the near-death experience due to his own incompetence.

The backdoor creaked, and he heard the dogs tumbling back inside. He swallowed hard. Right. Breakfast to soften her up, then apologies. Flawless planning.

He plated the food and was just opening his mouth to say something, when Sansa came into the kitchen. His brain stalled. She was swallowed up in one of his heavy jackets, snowpants yet on, a fluffy hat on her head, and her hands dwarfed by a set of his choppers.

She looked at him, all bright-eyed as if nothing were amiss. “Breakfast ready?”

His brain struggled. “…yes?”

“Super.” And she plopped down at the table. “I’m sure it’ll be yummy.”

Had she taken him overly literally when he told her to put on a jacket? Was she spitting in his eye? “…alright.” And he put down her plate in front of her, because what else could he do? “You said you liked over-easy best. So—I made them. Over-easy.”

She cooed sweetly. “Thank you, Jon.” And her gloved hands made a dull sound as she clapped them together. He sat down, baffled, and then watched as she tried to pick up her fork with the choppers. The utensil just scratched uselessly at the table. She scowled, face all puffed-up and unbearably cute. She started swiping one gloved hand along the surface while putting her other just below the side. Eventually, she managed to sweep the fork from the table and into her off-hand. She beamed, clenched it up victoriously, and stabbed it into her plate.

She brought the forkful back up, wobbled, then nearly spilled over-easy egg all over herself.

That did it.

Jon howled with laughter.

This time, Sansa beamed at him, looking so pleased with herself that she practically glowed. She wasn’t mad at him, thank _fuck._

“Sansa—” And he nearly choked on his own spit. “What are you _doing?”_

She pulled an innocent face. “Eating, Ranger Snow.”

“Honey, you’re gonna starve that way.” And he coaxed her. “Come on, take off the gloves, you made your point.”

She giggled then, soft and thrilled, and did as he asked. Gloves, hat, then shimmied the snowpants off right in front of him. She was wearing sweatpants underneath—he knew that she’d been wearing sweatpants—but for that brief moment when she’d been swaying side to side like she’d been undressing for him…

 _Stay the fuck down._ He thought at his lap. In pure defiance, his cock twitched as Sansa reseated herself.

 _She could reseat herself right over here_ —godsdamnit.

She was breathless. “I’m sorry for yelling earlier.”

He shook his head. “I’m the one who should be sorry for all that, you were—”

But her nose scrunched up. “Forgive me, Jon.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

She huffed loudly. “Forgive me.”

“Alright, alright, I forgive you.” Because a man couldn’t do nothing else. “But that means I get the same, right?”

“Fair’s fair.” She agreed with put upon airs, only for her following smile to betray them. “I forgive you. And tonight…you don’t have to come to bed with—I mean. I didn’t want to pressure you into…”

Oh fuck no. No no _no,_ she wasn’t taking this from him. “It’s fine, it’s a good idea to share heat. And I’ll feel better if I know you’re alright. Please don’t worry about it.”

She wiggled in place, looking so close to surrender that he could _taste_ it. “If you’re sure…?”

“I’m sure.” And he gave a lazy shrug to dismiss it before she could throw anymore fuss. “I ever tell you about that time I had to share a sleeping bag with Satin on patrol?”

“No!” And her eyes glittered. “Was poor Satin disappointed then, too?”

Jon found himself grinning, because why wouldn’t he? She wasn’t mad, he was forgiven. “Well—”

And he was guaranteed an armful of Sansa Stark tonight.

/~/~/~/

They spent the day chatting while Jon did some light maintenance. They counted supplies, kept tally, and then Jon gave a thorough check to the generator to ensure it was in tiptop shape. Considering how they were depending on the machine, she didn’t begrudge him the time.

In the meanwhile, she gathered their supplies and laid out gear for their sightseeing tour on the morrow. Jon wanted an early start, and at least in this, he’d be the boss. And if he wanted to be the boss of her later—

She shivered. Gods, she’d been trying to ignore the slow pulse that had been growing all day with the knowledge that she’d be climbing into Jon’s arms tonight. Sleeping beside him; feeling his chest rise and fall with every breath. His scent, his weight, his heat—she’d have them all.

It made her feel greedy. Needy. _Voracious._

She was skipping straight into dangerous territory and knew she should have demurred. But she was going to bed with _Jon Snow_ , and no one on this earth including her own good judgement was going to stop her.

When Jon was done with the generator and had examined the gear she’d laid out, he beckoned her. “Wanna celebrate?”

“Celebrate what and celebrate how?”

“Getting to Saturday in one piece.” And he got out the glass decanter and swished the bourbon to tempt her. Though gods knew, Jon Snow didn’t need any help to lead her astray.

She feigned disapproval. “I thought that was for medicinal purposes only.”

His brow furrowed. “Not being cold…is a kind of cure?”

She hummed. “I’ll allow it.”

“So gracious.” But he was grinning when he poured them both a generous share. Hers was on the rocks; his was neat as he apparently hated his taste buds and wanted to burn them off. They clinked their glasses together and drank swift.

But putting their gear together hadn’t been the only thing she’d done in his absence, and as the sun fell, she stoked the fire high in the front room. Operation Forgiveness was still ongoing as far as she was concerned, and in short order she was coaxing Jon to sit on some cushions she’d set before the hearth, judiciously offering him a quilt before wrapping herself in one, pointing him towards the snacks she’d made, and then breaking into the pile of board games she’d hunted down from every nook and cranny in the house.

She couldn’t see her breath yet, but it felt a near thing. The fire and the bourbon were all that kept the chill at bay.

The dogs settled by them. She gave Ghost a pat first, then Lady. Lady ruffed at that and jammed her head in for a second pet in compensation for being slighted thus.

“Needy.” She accused, but weren’t they all?

“What do you wanna play?” Jon asked, cross-legged and relaxed, and looking far too tempting for a man draped in a quilt. No—the quilt enhanced it. Made him look as gentle as she knew he was. But she also knew what it felt like to sit in his lap now, and having it available and yet so unavailable was making her _squirm._

When would the gods take mercy on her?

The bourbon poured smoky on her tongue. “It’s your house.”

“It’s the VFS’s house, and you’re the guest. What do _you_ want to play?”

Anytime he’d like to stop being so lovely and perfect, she’d bloody well appreciate it. She dug into the games, opened a few boxes, and then let out a squeal. “You have one of the old spinners! Life, I want Life!”

“Life it is.” He agreed amiably. “I’m glad to see you’re a woman of taste—clicky-spinner or nothing.”

She had never felt kinship with a man more. She put a hand over his and declared with all seriousness: “Clicky-spinner _forever_.”

They both cackled at that and went digging into the box. Jon set the board and pieces while she started arranging the money.

She made to take the blue car. He swiped it, which had her squawking: “Hey!”

He jabbed a finger. “There’s a lot I’ll allow you, but the blue car is _mine_ , you hear me?”

And just what were these things of which he would allow her? A question for another time, and she pouted outright: “I always play blue.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Too bad.”

“It’s my _color.”_

He held up the car. Considered. “I’ll give that it matches your eyes.” And then snatched it away. “But the answer’s still no.”

“ _Jon.”_ She wailed, but the man just looked so smug with himself, that it had her all hot and bothered in an entirely new way. She could just imagine him looking like that, while she was laid bare and open and desperate beneath him, which— _gods._

She had to get a grip. Should she be this aflutter over him comparing things to her eyes? No. Was she going to be aflutter anyways? _Undoubtedly._

They set their cars, their pegs. She finally gave up her sulking and picked the red car. Jon just smirked. “Aren’t you a color-coordinated one—matches your hair.”

If he said one more thing like this, she was going to climb into his lap and smack a kiss on him, and damn the consequences.

Oblivious to her plots, Jon shoveled a handful of white chocolate covered pretzels into his mouth and considered the first split in the board. She considered him in turn: “You can’t be serious.”

He shrugged. “Speed is its own strategy.”

“But business gives you such a low salary!”

“Eh.”

Blasphemy. “Do you really hate college that much?”

Jon just gave a scratch to Ghost’s ears where the dog had flopped in his lap. “Was never much of an academic.”

The joke, she realized, had shifted away. She shifted with it. “I’ll give you that a lot of teachers at the secondary level can be…demoralizing for going further. But if it’s a subject you’re interested in, I honestly think you’d enjoy it.”

But he shook his head. “Says the bookworm.”

_“Rude.”_

“If the book fits.” And his eyes were glittering at her, sly as sin.

But he’d pushed the subject away, so she let it go. Instead, she eyed the board dubiously. “But how will you support your wife and children on such a low salary?”

His hand froze mid-pet on Ghost. “I make a good money as a Ranger!”

She rolled her eyes. “In the _game_ , Jon.”

“Oh.” He blinked rapidly. “Right.”

“But.” And oh gods she shouldn’t be asking this, and yet— “The forestry service treats you well?”

His gaze flickered up with a certain strength of _intent_. “I’m alright, and you know—government health benefits. Pension too. Any future wife and kids would be set.”

The word _wife_ struck her like an arrow, and she nearly choked on her tongue. “Oh—good. Great! I’m glad. Weren’t you spinning?”

“Yeah.” And his gaze pinned her for a punishing moment before dropping back down. “And just for you, I’ll go to college. I hope you’re _happy.”_

She scoffed. “Such thanks for my looking out for your future.”

“You’re just trying to fuck my strategy.”

_“Maybe.”_

Jon chuckled, spun, and then landed on physicist. She took her own spin and hit journalist. Even splits on salary, it seemed, and they bickered over the first hill and all the way to the chapel.

“Welp,” Jon mused. “Time to share the health benefits with the wife.”

That word wouldn’t fell her a second time. It wouldn’t. “And what’s her name?”

He paused in rooting through the peg box. “What?”

Too late to stop now, and she shrugged. “My family always named our spouses when we played—so. What’s her name?”

And his expression turned amused. “No, you’re the expert here, who’s the lucky Mr. Sansa Stark? Enquiring minds gotta know.”

Oh gods. “This is going to make me sound bad.”

He came fully upright. “Bad how.”

“A bad Northerner. Awful.”

“You can’t just say that and not tell me.”

It was her terrible, secret, tragic shame. And she whispered: “Duncan Targaryen.”

He snorted forcefully. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Hey!”

“No,” He continued. “You’d definitely be the little girl in love with the prince who gave up a crown for love. I should have guessed.”

“He was _also_ the reason the Targaryen Dynasty collapsed. He completely destabilized his father’s reforms and caused a revolt. That was what forced the political marriage of his sister to the Baratheon’s that gave Robert The Rebellious his claim to the Throne. And that’s not even counting how he inspired Jaeherys and Shaera to break their betrothals, which gave birth to Aerys the Mad—”

Jon just coughed something that suspiciously sounded like laughter into his hand. When she bristled, he smirked. “Baby-Sansa _wasn’t_ marrying the Prince of Dragonflies for political reasons, and don’t you tell me different.”

The man had spotted her clean out. She scowled. “Just for that, I’m not inviting you to Duncan and I’s wedding.”

“I’m hurt.” And he put a hand over his heart. “Guess I’ll just have to marry Jenny, then—can’t let the poor bird be lonely.”

“I wish you two _every_ happiness.”

“I’m sure you do.”

She just rolled her eyes, then couldn’t help herself from saying: “We’d just better hope our spouses don’t leave us for each other.”

And his gaze settled so heavily on her. “That’d be a shame, wouldn’t it? Us all alone _.”_

They were alone right now. Dogs settled, fire crackling, only a game board separating her from leaning over to find his mouth. But still, she married Duncan, Jon married Jenny, and they flicked the spinner and went on their honeymoons quite _separately_. It was a tragic waste.

A vicious fight came to follow. Jon cursed her when she crossed the toll bridge first. “See? I knew you were trying to fuck my strategy!”

“Pay the toll, Ranger. Chin up.”

“You’re trying to starve Jenny and our kids, is what you’re doing.”

“Money, Snow.” And she flicked a hand. He made sure to grimace hard when he slapped his bills into it.

They both gathered up children until she was on number six. She sighed gustily as she added her next set of twins to her car.

“What,” He mocked. “Too many mouths to feed?”

“ _Yes.”_ She muttered. “You should never have more than two—kids shouldn’t outnumber the adults, it just causes _issues.”_

He quieted. “Does it?”

And she quieted, too. “I always thought so. You should be able to pay attention to them; go to all their games and recitals and make it so they don’t feel…overlooked.” And then she took some granola and shoved it into her mouth. “I don’t know, don’t listen to me.”

“No.” He disagreed. “That sounds right. My Uncle Daeron—I stayed with him sometimes. Him and his wife had four kids, and always being underfoot like that was crap _.”_

“Right?” She answered bleakly, and then it was slipping from her: “The flu went through our house when I was ten, maybe eleven.” She fiddled with her glass. “Rickon was still a baby, and all of us kids got it but Robb. He got sent to stay with Uncle Benjen, and I just remember…dad was reading something to Arya in her room when I fell asleep. When I woke up again, I was feeling _awful_ , and I remember crying for them. For anyone.” And her lashes dragged damp. “No one came.”

“Gods.” He blurted as it’d been struck from him.

But she already felt guilt. “It’s not…there were four sick kids including a baby, and mom had a few dozen dogs on property. I know they could only be so many places at once—I’m probably complaining too much.”

His jaw merely steeled. “No, you just knew where you were in the pecking order. That’s on them.”

She nodded messily; took another drink. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” And he nodded, too. But then, nervously, his thumb went rubbing at his thigh. His gaze leveled. “So. Two kids, huh?”

She flushed hot and then had the most inappropriate thought of a little black-haired, blue-eyed baby in her arms, and just what activities could have led to her holding such a treasure. “Yeah—I, a boy and a girl. Or two boys, two girls. Doesn’t matter. I just want two.”

“Huh.” He muttered, and she couldn’t stop.

Couldn’t _resist_. “You ever think of having kids?” And it snarled something up inside her. Had her holding her breath and holding onto her heart, lest he steal them both.

He rocked backwards. “I—uh. Never thought about it that much. Kids…” And something in him shifted strangely. “You said your family named spouses playing this—what did your parents do? I’m trying to imagine the marital discord when your dad picked another woman.”

“Oh.” And that set off a happier trickle of memory. “They’d marry each other, then they’d have two cars hauling kids around. Said they’d need it, you know. They’d split their money exactly in half at the end of the game so it’d be fair, and…” Then found herself blushing. The memory had been drawn out of her sticky and saccharine, and maybe too cloying to inflict on another.

Sansa Stark always rambling. Always oversharing. Always missing the godsdamn mark.

But Jon just propped his chin in his hand and watched her steady. “They’re in love then, your parents?”

“Yes.” Because that was the truth. It’d been the bedrock of her childhood. Maybe now that she was older some of their parenting choices sat differently with her, but their love—she was grateful for it. She knew what real romantic love was and wasn’t.

Maybe she’d never have it for herself: to be loved so completely. But at least she’d seen it once in this life to know that it existed _._ Even if she’d been left hungry for it; left to grow up half-starved to even just _once_ be someone’s favorite.

Someone’s only.

The firelight was bright on his face, and yet a shadow limned him. “That’s something.”

“Were yours…” And it tripped off her tongue: this question that shouldn’t be asked. “I’m sorry.”

But he shrugged. “Naw. I asked, so you can ask too, right?”

She took another pull of bourbon—let it burn. “Not if you don’t want to talk about it.”

And he took his own pull. Deep; throat smooth as he swallowed without a flinch. “Truth is, I honestly don’t know. Maybe they thought they were, but I doubt it was real for either of them.”

“Did they never tell you?”

Another heavy pull; the back of his hand dragging across his mouth. “Rhaegar—my father—he died from a car crash when I was two. But he wasn’t really involved anyways, he left me at Grandma Rhaella’s after I was born. As for my mother…” A grimace crossed him. “I don’t know who she is.”

There was a moment of incomprehension. Of disbelief, until the truth he’d spoken cut to her bones. “Gods. Jon, I’m so sorry.”

His gaze drifted to the fire. “It is what it is.”

“But how…I mean, if you don’t mind me asking…?”

The light of the hearth twisted across his face. “Rhaegar was a harpist part of this orchestra down in King’s Landing, but in-between seasons he’d go to secondary schools giving classes and shit.” His jaw trembled, and she wanted to take his hand, do something—but he was already in motion. “A girl showed up in a hospital in Dorne. She gave birth, then slipped out the door and left the baby there. They found out later she’d given a fake address, fake name—fake everything. Only real thing she left was the father’s name: Rhaegar Snow. She said she was eighteen on intake, but grandma talked to some of the nurses and…they thought the girl was younger. Three or four years younger.”

Horror rushed through her. _Flooded._ She clapped a hand across her mouth. “Oh my _gods.”_

“Yeah.” Jon answered bitterly. “We all put two and two together on that one. But the cops couldn’t do anything, and then Rhaegar left me with grandma and did the world a favor putting his car in the Trident. So...” And a terrible, simple shrug followed. “Whatever, right?”

Except she was already past the board and pushing herself onto the cushion with him. She snaked her arms around his waist. He froze, glass jostling—but then his arm went around her back and his cheek was pressing to her head. He made a noise and turned his face into her hair.

The fire crackled and hissed. The wood shifted. Lady padded over softly to join the pile they’d made on the floor. Where the dogs laid on their laps, Lady pressed her nose to Ghost’s. Licked him.

Her heart was a trampled thing. “I can’t even imagine.”

His chest expanded, contracted; pulled her into a tide with him. His mouth lifted from her. “It fucks you up. I thought about having kids sometimes, before—before it all. But how would I even know how to raise them? Not screw them up?”

_Like I was._

Like they all were.

“I think…” Her head rose and fell with his breath, and so did her hopes. “…I think a lot of people don’t know how to parent going into it. All you can do is love them, pay attention, and make it so they’re safe and know they can always depend on you. If you let them know you love them for exactly who they are…that’s all it is.”

“You think?” He asked bleakly.

“I hope.” She answered. “Can’t say for sure—all I’ve got so far is a dog, and Duncan and our plastic kids.”

He hooked his chin over her head, chest rumbling with something that was almost laughter. “Lady’s well behaved _and_ she bites bad men, so I think your mothering’s ten for ten so far.”

She huffed. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I will encourage her every day of the week.” And he squeezed her in. “C’mon, it’s your spin, Mrs. Targaryen.”

“Don’t _call_ me that.” And she elbowed him. “I’ll have you know I’ve kept my maiden name.”

“That policy or something?”

“No monikers of imperialist tyrants, and I only make exceptions for names that are pretty and sound good with mine. No substitutes.”

It came suddenly. Blessedly—Jon leaning down and mouthing two words into her hair. Three syllables; each sibilant and silent against her.

A shiver rippled down her back, sparks and snowflakes and something _impossible_. Something perfect: wintery and shaped like a future hope.

He couldn’t, he hadn’t, he _wouldn’t—_

He pulled away. “Spin it, Stark.”

Head firmly in the clouds, she spun it. Then, so very softly, she leaned against him. “Jon…you’d be good at it. Kids.”

But his only answer was a sigh against her hair.

/~/~/~/

He didn’t track which of them won. Didn’t much care; just knew at the end that he was buzzed, and that Sansa never did return to her side of the board. They were one little family here by the fire. It made him tremble. Made him a fucking _fool._

Her, him, two dogs, two kids—

It was a pretty picture, and too perfect to stare at head-on. It had him dreaming like a man in fever.

It scared the absolute living shit out of him.

His abdomen was burning, his throat too. His cock was half hard. His face was flushed. He didn’t know which way it was going to go now—hurt or hope or something painfully in-between.

Sansa was sprawled against him, sugar-sweet with the bourbon settling. Gods. He wanted to lick the taste of it right out of her mouth.

She picked at the paper money in some attempt to put it away.

It could wait for tomorrow. “Hey, busy-bee. Honey.” She kept picking. “Honeybee.”

She made an adorable little face. “I’m cleaning up.”

“Leave it. I’m gonna stoke up the fire in the study, then it’s sleep.” And then quite against his own volition, he pulled her sideways and kissed the top of her head. _Fuck gods fuck—_

He snatched his mouth away. “Uh—just stay here. I got it. I’ll be right on it—” And nearly flung the dogs to the ground with the speed at which he scrambled.

Sansa just smiled up at him, hazy and syrup-slow. “Okay. Get our bed warm, Jon.”

_Fuck gods fuck YES._

And then he was scrambling for a whole new reason. First order of business was feeding the fire in the study to a conflagration, arranging the blankets, then making sure the mattresses were firmly pushed together. He got water bottles to put at the head of the bed, fluffed pillows, and then rushed to the kitchen to brush his teeth when he heard Sansa in the downstairs bath doing the same.

It’d take the taste of the bourbon out of her mouth, but—he wasn’t kissing her anyways because that would be _unprofessional_ —a man could still mourn the loss.

Sansa met him at the study door and took his hand. “Bedtime.”

He swallowed what felt like an entire thrashing bird. “…okay.”

He’d thought it be awkward, but it wasn’t. She climbed in first and he went after her; carefully pulling the blankets over them both as she snuggled down. Then as if connected in the same motion, he reached out his arm and she took his arm, and they both put it over her waist. He pulled her in just as she snuggled back into his chest.

Same wavelength. Same want.

Same desire: because she linked her fingers through his and dragged his hand to settle right beneath her breasts. It was the most wondrous, taunting weight that he’d ever felt. He nuzzled into her hair and breathed her. And fuck it, he just might die happy.

He’d die happier if she dragged his palm a little further and settled it on a breast. But it seemed here their wavelength ended, because Sansa just sighed happily and sank down. But that was okay. Arms full of Sansa Stark was everything he’d wanted; he wouldn’t ask for more.

The fire crackled. The shadows glided overhead. “Jon.” And her voice whispered through.

He tangled their legs. “Hmmmm?”

“Do you ever think that…” But it trailed away, slipped into the crackling of the hearth and stayed down in the embers.

“Do I…?”

But she didn’t answer, just settled completely into his arms and then breathed deep.

He wondered, wanted—but a man couldn’t complain. He just brushed the barest kiss to her hair and held on. “Night, honeybee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa: Hey Jon, do you think I'm funny and want to get married and give me babies????? Asking for a friend.
> 
> Lol. Anyhow, I think the most important part or true love isn't just sexual chemistry, but emotional compatibility and "plans" compatibility as well. So while this chapter demonstrates their continual ability to make each other laugh and give comfort/understanding, I wanted to start giving a small peak into them wanting the same future things...if only they'd talk so they knew they wanted those things with each other!!! You two could have beautiful babies, damnit!!
> 
> Also...yeah. Rhaegar gonna Rhaegar. It's not THAT different from how he was in the books in my opinion. He just lived longer here, but probably fed Lyanna the same sort of shit about how "special" she was before wrecking her life. UGH.
> 
> Now, tune in next time for: THE FIELD TRIP I SWEAR IS ACTUALLY FINALLY HAPPENING.


	11. High Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Logic Brain: Now that you have a chapter written, you should sit on it a week or two while writing the next one so you have a cushion.
> 
> Lizard Brain: S E R O T O N I N.
> 
> Anyhow, y'all have lizard brain to thank for this one. 
> 
> But since this got put up so quick: to some of the regular readers who come through my inbox, I haven't seen you on chapter 10 yet. So if you haven't read this story in a while, please check back a chapter or two to make sure you're caught up! Love you all. 😘

There was no pain at dawn, not with Jon curled over her. Not with Jon hard _behind_ her. She giggled into the blankets. She wouldn’t wiggle against him because that would be taking advantage…but if she happened to lay here while Jon was pressed against her backside, who could blame her? And sweet mercy: his breath hot on her neck, one arm between her breasts, the other up under her head where he’d come to cradle her in the night. She felt soft inside; a body at last allowed its full repose. All weightless. All warm.

All _burning._

She sighed happily and clasped his arm close. If she could just stay like this forever. Always be held, be safe.

Wanted.

_Don’t dream too deeply, Sansa._

But dream she did. A little house, an oak-framed bed, the dogs across their feet. Frost in the mornings. Fires in the evenings. Jon rolling her over and sliding between her thighs whenever it pleased them. Briefly, so very guiltily, of that blue-eyed treasure he could give her to hold within her arms.

She was out of her damn mind.

But she stayed clinging to him. Jon wanted an early start…but she could have this a little while. Dream quietly: that he wanted her, and wanted the things she wanted. It wouldn’t hurt anyone.

But she remembered last night and him mouthing silently into her hair. Remembered that he’d kissed the top of her head more than once. It hadn’t been comfort those times; hadn’t started because she’d been sobbing her eyes out. Was he an affectionate man who did that for friends…or was he a man who wanted more? Maybe. Maybe…?

The minutes slid. The air was frigid, and she buried her face into their cocoon. Jon stayed a furnace so all-encompassing. Maybe—

He stirred. “Mmpphhh.”

Nothing lasted. “Up and at ‘em?” She asked mournfully.

His sigh puffed against her neck. “Up and at ‘em.”

/~/~/~/

He had to have imagined that little wiggle she did as she left bed. Had to, but he wasn’t imagining the _situation_ in his pants on waking to Sansa all soft and sweet, possible maddening shimmy or no. And he certainly wasn’t imagining racing to the bath first so he could take himself in hand. Goddsadamn, but he _needed_ at least two bits of common sense to rub together today.

And speaking of rub—he stared down at the length in his palm and sighed.

He was going to hell with his cock in hand, but at least the hellfire would be warm.

/~/~/~/

Sansa was an attentive student when he showed her how to restart the generator—it only took her two tries.

“Busy-bee’s got it.” He congratulated. She just turned and shot him a little grin that looked flirtatious, and nearly set him on fire.

She scampered after that to go open the vents in the top hallways so they could take showers, but godsdamn—that grin stayed with him. Would it be so bad, honestly, to make a move? Have her for real? Even if Mormont murdered him, and he’d have to live like a starving man after she left?

It might be worth it.

It might not kill him.

He ground his knuckles into his forehead. “Eyes forward, Snow. _Fuck.”_ But the thought was there now, and he was aching with it.

She took the first shower while he tended the dogs and got them fed. He got the second while she whipped up a hot breakfast to get them out the door. The inside of the house was flushing with heat as the generator worked, and when he came back downstairs, his coat had been casually tossed onto a chair. Her hair was braided and fell against his sweaters that she wore. And, rather delightfully, her arse was still looking fantastic in her leggings and blessing him with its presence.

“Ready?” She asked.

His eyes snapped up. “Ready.” And he guiltily took the muffin she offered.

Locking the dogs away, however, was another matter.

“Please don’t cry, baby. Please don’t!” Sansa wailed.

On the other side of the study door, Lady kept crying _piteously._

“Mama loves you.” She swore. “I’ll be back soon, I promise!”

At his side, Ghost started howling. Jon put a fist over his snout and pushed down. “No.”

Ghost whimpered like he’d been kicked.

“Ghost, buddy, I’m not buying it. _I’m not.”_

Sansa just whimpered herself, and then—contrary to all plans and promises they’d made before starting this trial—darted back into the study. Jon sighed and crouched to stroke Ghost from head to tail. “Hey, hey, you’re alright. The girls are alright.”

In the corner of his eye, he could see Sansa hugging Lady. Over that sloping shoulder and the scarlet rope of her braid, Lady looked _unbearably_ smug. Jon rolled his eyes. “Enjoy it while it lasts, mutt.”

“ _Jon.”_ Sansa chastised, but the joke was on her—when she used that tone, he _liked_ it.

He wondered if he’d ever have the balls to tell her; wondered further if he’d have the balls to _ask._ But finally, after much wailing and gnashing and useless horny musings, they managed to get the dogs shut away and themselves out the door.

“Are you sure they’ll be okay?” She fretted.

“The furnace is on, and they’ve got food and water dishes in both rooms. Also, pretty sure both of them have half their bodyweight in fur. They’ll be fine.”

“But what if they—”

“You can always stay behind.”

“No!”

“Alright then.” And he pushed her helmet on and started tightening the strap. “Let’s move.”

And move they did. The westerly routes weren’t clear, but they weren’t catastrophic, either. West faces typically weren’t avalanche paths or liable to blind cliffs, so they were making good time as they clipped along. There was even some scenery that wasn’t depressing.

“Oh my gods, Jon. The _falls_.”

“Yeah.” And he may have gone out of their way so she could see them. “In another month or so, they’ll be frozen solid.”

There were already streams of ice frozen solid from cliff to rocks, but more water still bubbled and kept spilling over. The arcs of ice scattered the water so finely, that ice crystals sparkled on the air a hundred feet down. Some years it froze so smoothly that the falls looked like a prism.

“It’s beautiful.” She whispered, but he knew there was far a prettier sight clinging behind him. “Thank you.”

It made his chest hurt. “It was on the way.”

She just squeezed him in return.

Another two hours passed filled with pitstops and pointing fingers, and him even enjoying how hard Sansa was clutching across his stomach. Finally, they reached the High Western ridge that gave the clearest view to the Vale’s end. They couldn’t actually see the Twins from here, but he liked to imagine on clear days that he could. The mountain peaks spilled out behind them like spears of frost. The peaks ahead framed the horizon—hinted to a wash of green just beyond their reach.

Sansa, as always, gasped in delight when they cleared the ridge. It never failed how happy her sincere reactions made him. She didn’t hold back or be anything other than who she was. It was a trait he appreciated so dearly after the Watch. After always having to play the hard man; pretend into that fucking masculine _bullshit_ to the boys and the Rangers and the Freefolk, that he—

He shoved the thought down so hard that it struck him dizzy. He staggered upright, and it was only the long trip that had his legs shaky as he climbed off the snowmobile.

Sansa just trailed happily behind him, already opening her backpack and offering her first find. “Binoculars.”

“Thanks.” And he cleared his throat, swallowed, then pulled off his helmet. Sansa was already drawing out the writing board and unfolding the map across it. She got out a marker and yanked off its cap with her teeth.

He let himself imagine lavishly how he’d pull that cap from her lips and replace it with his mouth. Lick into her. Steal her breath. The thought settled him, and he was finally able to get to work on what they’d trekked out here for.

And it wasn’t bad, not bad at all—he couldn’t see every route through, but the trees were thinner out here and had fewer blowdowns. The winds had whipped the snows fiercely and in odd drifts up the lines, but it looked clearer than anything he’d seen yet. He’d have to spend two or three days tracing a route to its end, but they might actually have options.

For the first time since the storm—Jon let himself hope.

He traded the binoculars for the map, made notes, then traded back again. They went on like that for a time until he was wading down the slope to get a better view. Sansa followed behind him, snow crunching under her boots as she hummed quietly.

He was half listening to her and half listening to the winds; trying to get an eye on a southerly pass around an outcropping. Snow crunched. Hissed. His left foot planted down.

_Whumpf._

And the ground moved.

Compression. Shift. _Slide_.

“Jon—”

And his legs were dragging down. _Down_. The world crystalized into a thousand bright edges.

A rumble echoed, loud as thunder.

_Avalanche._

“GO UP! SANSA, GO—” Cracks fissured down the slope. Slabs started sliding. He was nearly knee deep and back-slipping hard—

They were only thirty feet down the ridge, only thirty.

It might as well have been thirty miles.

_Gods please no._

“JON!” Sansa seized him by the arm, yanked—and his legs came loose. The snow kept sliding away under them like trying to run on a treadmill going full speed. It accelerated.

“GO!” He howled, and she started scrambling. This wasn’t an avalanche zone, it wasn’t—but the drifts. The fucking drifts had been wind slabs, and he _hadn’t_ _noticed._

The thunder became a roar. Sansa stumbled, and he pushed hard against her back even as the snows nearly took her legs from under her. The noise was deafening. Adrenaline throbbed hotter than a nova in his skull.

They weren’t going to make it.

A slab cracked off a pine and sprayed them with snow. White-out.

Bright. Howling. Sansa’s body striking him yet again. He jammed a leg down and barely managed to stop the flood from taking them. One second, two—if he held onto her, maybe they’d stay together. Maybe it wouldn’t drag them too deep and he could claw their way out when it ended.

Another slab cracked off the pine—the pine.

“SANSA, GRAB THE TREE!” He didn’t know if she could hear him. Some superhuman force drove him up another few feet with her half in his arms. The airborne snow billowed away. Visibility clear. It was close enough, and he grabbed her bodily and flung her up the ridge.

All slowed. Her arms pinwheeling. A scream—snow, the wind, her voice—and she hit the base of the tree. She skidded. Slipped. Another skid, and she was clawing for its trunk—

A miracle: her right foot pushed under just enough to propel herself up and fling her arms around the trunk. Thank the gods, thank the _damned._ She was safe.

A slab struck him in the gut. His breath punched out of him.

“JON!” She screamed. “GRAB ON TO ME!”

The snow broke around him and he kept his feet, but another slab was coming. The mountain wanted to take him and punish him for his hubris. But he’d saved her. _He’d saved her._

It was enough.

She kicked out her legs, only her arms keeping her anchored as the avalanche tried to take them all. “JON!”

And the edges of the earth were bright. So bright. His head rolled back—and the sky was there: blue and colossal and shattering him _open_.

Woodsmoke. Butterscotch. Treetops gold and glorious, and her hair like scarlet thread caught in the wind. Little footprints in the mud. Laughter. Eyes bluer. The dogs rushing out through the trees; streaks of stone and snow against the brush. Little hands, little voices. Her mouth red and hot and open for his—

He wouldn’t leave her.

Animal instinct _erupted_. Every muscle coiled. His eyes cleared. Bright edges in the thousands, and he saw them all. The snow broke again. He caught shallow ground and missed the slab by a hair’s breadth. One step to her. Another; fighting for every inch. One split moment of firm footing to dig himself down—

He leapt.

His fist locked around Sansa’s ankle. Snow gouged into his eyes, blinded him, but adrenaline pounded as he clawed up her body. Shin, hip, over her shoulder—and then he was on the up-facing side and yanking Sansa hand over hand behind him. He flung her body between his and the pine, and locked his arms around them.

Braced.

The snows slammed off his legs, hissed. Another slab broke. He took the fucking punishment.

Quieter, quieter. Snow billowing. The tide at his legs rising. Quieter. He could hear her breathing; saw the pine bark wedged into her cheek.

He couldn’t catch his breath. “You okay?”

Her eyes were fixed on some distant point. Her pupils were pinpricks, and she wheezed for air.

He’d knocked the _wind_ out of her. “You’re okay, gods, you’re okay. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Another rasp of the snow behind them, and he pinned her back to the tree with full force. Waited. Her wheezing grew louder. Slowly, again, the snows came to a halt. He’d have to dig out their legs—the drifts were now past their hips.

He let go and rubbed her back. “Do it slow. Get your breath back while I dig, then we’re moving to the top of the ridge. You’re alright, I’ve got you.”

She sucked another breath. “Sn’mbile.”

“What?”

She hacked up wetly. “Snowmobile.”

And a chill crackled down his spine. _Oh fucking gods._ He’d forgotten the snowmobile. They were at least a hundred-twenty miles out from the cabin—

And he’d forgotten.

He whipped around to stare up the ridge. Snow was piled haphazardly in every direction. The upper-most section of the slope was nearly stripped to the ground. Nothing but white on all sides. He’d left the snowmobile near the lip, but…

This wasn’t supposed to be an avalanche zone, so he had no idea of where and how much it’d pulled. How it may have _fucked_ them.

His lungs were burning. _Focus._ And he pulled his breathing down; regulated it. Panic was the enemy of survival, and it was more than his life on the wire now.

“It’s up there.” He promised, because any other option was currently unthinkable. They needed to get clear first. The rest could wait.

She nodded shakily. “My chest hurts.”

He froze. “Can you breathe okay?”

“I think so.” But she winced. “It hurts like after the crash.”

A re-injury—or maybe he’d done her worse. _Fuck_. “Just keep breathing slow and steady. We got first aid in your backpack. I’ll get you some aspirin once we’re up-top, okay?”

She made a wet noise. Sniffled: “Okay.”

He could use some aspirin once they were uptop, too. The backs of both his legs felt like one long bruise. The adrenaline was still trailing off, but that climb he’d done to the tree had probably reaggravated every strain in his shoulders.

He was never going to deserve Sansa’s backrubs after this, but he wished…

But wishing was the enemy, too.

He dug. He got his hips loose, his thighs, then started working on hers. Down to her knees, her shins—then Sansa started shaking herself loose. She wiggled up onto the snows. Sank a little.

“Nothing broken?”

She shook her head, then pressed against her chest with a shudder. “No.”

He’d be the judge of that, but—later.

Sansa helped him with shoveling his legs out. He wanted to tell her not to, but knew he was in no position to reject help at this point. Whatever was needed had to be done.

He shook clear and took her hand. “C’mon.” And they went up the slope like a pair of drunkards. The avalanche had shaken the snows to powder, and their legs sank with every step. Sometimes to the knee, sometimes almost to the hip.

They pulled each other loose each time and kept going. Sansa had the easier go of it—she was lighter. The snow levels dropped substantially, and soon it was only up to their ankles. They cleared the ridge: nothing but white.

No snowmobile.

Her hand clenched down. “Jon?”

 _Fuck the gods._ “I’ll go look for it in a minute. Turn around.”

She didn’t argue, just turned, and he dug into the backpack for the first aid kid. He ripped off a glove with his teeth and pulled the bottle to shake out some pills. He dry-swallowed his. “Here.” And she turned to let him press the heel of his hand to her mouth so she could take hers. She chased them with some snow.

And Jon knew how fucked they were: even the feel of her lips, the heat of her tongue on his naked palm—it stirred nothing in him.

“Stay here.”

“I can help.” She argued.

“I know, but right now I need you to conserve energy. We might need it later.”

She rubbed at her arms, her hands. Looked so damn small. “I understand.”

And he hated that she did.

But then came the question he’d dreaded. “But what will we do if we can’t find it?”

He girded himself. “Sat-phone’s still in the bag; we’ll call for an airlift. I promise, you’re not in any danger right now.”

Yet fear flooded her. “But the _dogs_.”

“Hey.” He didn’t deserve it, he was fuckup who deserved _nothing_ —but she needed this, and he took her hand gently. “They’ll just drop me supplies. You’ll get taken down into the valleys, and I’ll hike back to the cabin. The dogs are probably gonna spend a few days hungry, but they’ve got water. They’ll be alright.”

But she just gripped his arms back and clenched _hard._ “I don’t want to leave; I can go with you. I promise I can keep up.”

She wasn’t in any shape to, but they shouldn’t be wasting energy arguing right now. The sun was high, not even noon, but daylight was wasting. He still didn’t know how pressed SAR services were, and knew he could only spend a few hours searching for the snowmobile, before needing to get on the horn to give the air jockeys time to get here.

She wasn’t spending a night outdoors. He might know how to make it out here with barely any gear, but she didn’t. She was still so close to a bout of hypothermia, and had backslid just days before. There was no risking her.

“We’ll worry about that later; I still might be able to find the snowmobile.” And maybe it would even be in one piece enough that he could get it started. A man could dream.

The binoculars would have been nice right now, but he couldn’t remember which of them had been holding them before the avalanche, let alone where they might be now. Instead, he turned her back around to dig into the bag. He found what he needed, got the collapsible snowshoes as well, then sat her on the ground. “I’ll be back soon, please rest up.”

She nodded glumly but went along. With a flick of his wrist he snapped the avalanche probe together. The stick was segmented, but once assembled, it was solid and near eight feet in length. Hopefully the snowmobile hadn’t been rolled far. Hopefully he’d be able to hit it and start digging.

At least he could be thankful the snowmobile hadn’t hit _them_ on the way down. And with that cheerful reminder, he buckled down to start the search.

/~/~/~/

She waited half an hour before rising; that counted as enough rest in her opinion. As soon as she was upright, she moved to stay line with him: her on the ridge and him down on the slope. If anything happened to him, she’d be able to see it and get down there quick.

He glanced up to her sometimes after she’d started walking, but he didn’t say anything, just went back to the search like a man condemned.

Her ears were buzzing. Her lungs were on _fire._ For all the pain though, it stayed distant.

Her body was here, but her head…it was packed with white noise. Scratchy. Unseeing. _Screaming._ There was only Jon below; one dark figure against a wash of death. They’d been so close there, so close to…

She swung her eyes from it. Found the sky. Breathed.

It was over. It was _okay._

The mountains ringed them like a crown of serrated blades; iron and bronze. _Behemoths._ It reminded her of a crown that once adorned Wolf Kings. They were so very small out here, distant from anything at all. Safety. Danger. Warmth.

But out of anyone, Jon could do this. He was the best there was. If anyone could find their lost snowmobile and get them back safe, it’d be him. She didn’t think about the airlift; didn’t think of having to leave Lady and Ghost and Jon behind if it came to that.

She wouldn’t let him. She _wouldn’t._ She was safest here with him; couldn’t he see that?

White noise again. It blotted the sky, flickered, then scattered like dust from her eyes. She glanced down the slope and then hurried to keep them aligned.

She almost missed the shape at first. It was ten feet further down and already to the back of Jon as he kept walking his grid; lifting the probe and sliding it down over and over and over. The shape was lumpy and unnatural compared to the other hills and sinks around. The white contours were nearly invisible against each other, but she could swear it wasn’t a false alarm this time. She could have sworn that it was—

“JON!”

His entire body jolted like he’d been struck. He yanked around. “ARE YOU OKAY?”

“YES! LOOK DOWN AND BEHIND YOU.” She pointed an arm. “FIVE FEET BACK, ABOUT TEN FEET DOWN.”

She could only see his head and shoulders moving, too distant for any facial expressions. But she knew him and knew the moment that he caught it. The slump to his body vanished. He turned to throw her a sign, and even though his steps were slow and deliberate, she could see the hurry in them.

He jabbed the probe at the shape. It only went two feet deep. Jon threw it aside and started digging.

It felt like years, but truthfully, only seconds dripped by.

A swathe of black surfaced beneath his hand. Jon’s victorious whoop echoed against the sky, and it sent her heart soaring.

They’d done it.

He leapt upwards and cupped his hands. “YOU FOUND IT. STAY THERE.”

Like hell she was. She started making her way down, but was mindful to stay to the shallow snows. There was still a risk, she knew, but not so much she couldn’t bring herself another twenty feet to him.

It was close enough that she could make out his scowl when he turned again.

“DID YOU NOT HEAR ME?”

She gave an exaggerated shrug.

Jon sighed but turned back to excavating. She wanted to help, but they only had one set of snowshoes. That’d been a mistake on her part. Next time—she didn’t know what the next time would be, but she was packing double of everything, even if Jon had to wear a backpack and deprive her of clinging so close to him.

She could make sacrifices.

The snowmobile emerged back into the sun; black as jet and about the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. And as she’d seen Jon Snow smile, that was _very_ pretty sight indeed. He flipped it, then started dragging the machine to the shallows. It was only another fifteen feet nearer, but it was close enough that they no longer had to shout.

“Is it alright?”

His joy had faded to steely grimness. “We’ll see.” And he cleared out the exhaust pipe. Adjusted something in the back.

He turned the key. Nothing.

A knot wedged in her throat.

He turned it again. There was a wavering, strangled rev. It didn’t catch.

He stopped. “Okay.” And went to the back once more. Another adjustment, some fiddling without his gloves, and then he pulled a panel off the side of the snowmobile. Manual start, she realized, and he got the handle of the recoil starter in hand. He braced down in the drift and steadied a palm against the snowmobile.

He used his whole body to yank the cord. A snarling rev, and it died slowly.

He pulled again. Another rev. Louder.

He pulled again—

The snowmobile _roared._ The headlight came on, exhaust poured, and Jon’s eyes swept shut. Lashes dark. Head tipped back. As if the sun was laying down a blessing. It gilded him: gold, dark, his mouth parted.

And at the sight, her heart _spasmed._

She no longer cared for distance. She ran the last dozens of feet, slogged them, then threw her arms around his shoulders.

Without hesitation, Jon swung her into the air.

/~/~/~/

It occurred to him then, with her in his arms and the sight of wind slabs at every elevation the eye could see—

There was too much weight at the tops, and all carried by that fucking windstorm. The slope should have been too shallow for any of this, but that shallow slope was the only reason they were still alive.

“I need to call to Valley Base before we go.”

She just pulled him closer. “Why?”

Because she wasn’t the only one who was trapped now.

"They need to know the entire westward exfil is a deathtrap.”

/~/~/~/

She told herself she hadn’t done any work, but as Jon drove them the last mile to the cabin, her head was listing against his back.

She wanted to sleep hard.

She wanted to shake _apart._

He’d made his call to base, then took them on the slowest drive back to the cabin that was humanly possible. She hadn’t realized Jon even _understood_ the concept of slow.

Though he understood the concept of caution just fine. On the way back his head was always on a swivel, and he’d cursed himself out more than once. They had, apparently and obliviously, passed through the jaws of danger more than once on the outwards swing. More wind slabs. More deceptive slopes.

And that tension strung every muscle in his back tight. She feared they’d reach the point of snapping, and she tried rubbing at them some.

It never helped.

His frustrations leeched into her; through her arms, her ribs, her breath. Her joints hurt. Her _chest_ hurt. When he stopped the snowmobile, she was already rubbing at her sternum.

He turned, and the friction he’d been dragging between them immediately notched down. “Ah fuck. Honey, come on, let’s go inside and take a look.”

She grumbled her compliance and let him lead her, help her shed her gear, then wait patiently while he stoked the fire. But she didn’t let him anywhere near her until he released the dogs and brought them to her. A girl had needs; needs of the floofy and doggy-kiss variety. She would not be denied.

Lady burst into the room. Ghost burst in behind her, clearly shouldered out of the way so Lady could get through first. A sob hiccupped in her chest, and that hurt, too. She still dropped to her knees. “ _Babies_.”

Lady rushed her and began licking her face furiosuly. Ghost ran over and shoved his nose into her neck. She laughed wetly and stroked them both. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Don’t mind me, I just missed you fluffy angels _so much.”_

Ghost rumbled and whined, then dropped to his haunches to plaster himself to her side. Lady stilled her licking as she seemed to pick up on the tension. Her head lowered, and she very gently pressed the top of her skull into Sansa’s chest.

“Easy.” Jon said behind them. “Easy, c’mon.” And then nudged Lady from the bruises.

Lady huffed up at him but then laid down, pressing her head into Sansa’s stomach where it didn’t hurt at all. Sansa put one arm around Ghost, cradled the other around Lady’s head, then scratched under both their chins.

She felt Jon’s hand settle firmly on her shoulder, then watched the other press to Ghost’s head. In response, the white dog’s eyes slipped shut in utter bliss. A doggy grin formed in a panting mouth.

They were all together. All safe. She breathed deep, and that scrabbling terror was finally brought to ground. 

Jon’s hand slipped from her back. “Let me get a look at your ribs.”

She missed it instantly and looked up. His face was a storm. Churning, dark, wild.

_Angry._

“What…?”

“C’mon, up.” And he strained as if he was holding a hurricane inside with only the clench of his teeth.

She rose. Lady pushed into her hip and Ghost pushed into the other.

Jon clicked his tongue at them, voice a whip. “Go lay down.” And both dogs went to lay near the fire. Even Lady, mutinous glances and all.

He looked a man near to boiling over; bloody and frothing as he took the hem of her shirt. “This alright?”

She didn’t understand him. Harsh and soft and roiling like something _wrathful_ was about to flood out his ribs to drown them all.

“Yes.” She answered, and his hands slipped under her shirt, fingers pressing to her ribs until she was shivering. Wincing. _Wanting._

 _Gods._ The heat of his skin and how roughly it dragged on hers—

He caught the wince and pressed harder. “How bad does that hurt?”

A spark of pain. “Three.” She gasped.

The pressure receded. “It doesn’t feel loose.” But his jaw was near to welding shut.

And she couldn’t leave it anymore. “What’s wrong?”

“With you? Nothing but more bruising.” And his hands ghosted her ribs one last time before slipping away.

She grabbed him by the wrists. “With _you,_ Jon. You’re not okay.”

“I’m fine.” He deflected. “Anything in your back or head acting up?”

She didn’t falter. “No, and stop avoiding the question. You’ve been upset since the avalanche, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” He barked a laugh. “Are you joking?”

She squeezed his wrists and didn’t rise to it. “I’m not.”

“You’re mad at me, right?” He asked, vibrating like a high-tension wire pulled to breaking.

She wanted to ease him. “No, I’m not mad.”

“Why not?” He demanded, as if she owed him that anger. Like he wanted nothing more than her to reach out and bash him across the head.

It bewildered her. “Why would I be angry?”

And he exploded: “Because I fucked up! Because I’m a shit for brains who nearly killed you because I didn’t check the fucking slope!”

It filled her strangely: calm on one side and turbulence on the other. Each close to tipping and rending them apart. “You told me this morning the westward routes weren’t avalanche paths.”

“And they’re not!” He shouted. “But I was the one who didn’t look at the wind drifts like some green-piss rookie—”

“Maybe you made a mistake.” And it silenced him instantly. All that wrath, all that _violence,_ and yet the cupping of her palms held it still. “I’m not sure that I agree with you. But if that’s what happened, all we can do is try to make up for it. Considering you saved our lives today, I’d call us square.”

His wrists trembled .“Sansa, I can’t…I can’t. If you’d died—”

“Jon…”

His voice kept rising. “You’re the only thing that matters. If you’d died, I may as well have jumped off a cliff. None of it matters without you, and I _hurt you.”_ And those last words broke across his teeth like a sob.

Jon Snow had fissured open before her. Laid raw. Laid bare. Soft and pulped and bloody, and trying to rip himself apart. The anger in him had never been for her.

He’d kept that for himself.

And his words came like arrows; lanced like swords. The dagger of him found her heart, and there was no recovery.

No more doubt. What a fool she’d been, blind as could be. But she’d always be a fool.

She released him, and he flinched from her like that single withdrawal had ravaged him.

It wouldn’t do. Her fingers reached up gently and smoothed the curls away from his forehead. Sweaty. Aching. Disbelief shining in those dark eyes. His lashes fluttered weakly. She softly traced her fingers down his temple, his cheek, then cupped his jaw.

All fight fled him, and his eyes slipped shut as he pushed into her hand.

She held him with a single palm; held her heart’s plainest desire as tenderly as she could. There was something rising in her and it was wider than sky. It might be wider than all her dreams. It shined like a star until its light flooded _through._

“Jon,” She asked him. “Darling.”

And his eyes came open.

Sparks were scattering then: her fingertips, her toes, the curve of her scalp. Frissons, all trembling.

_At last._

“Sansa—” He swallowed rough. “I _hurt_ you.”

“You didn’t.” She answered.

“I nearly killed—”

“You didn’t.” She repeated, and then rose up on her toes.

There was no storm in his eyes; only fear and hope and each burning like the sun. “Sansa…I don’t want you to feel trapped.”

“Jon,” She breathed her prayer. “You make me feel safe.”

And then softer than a fall of snow, she pressed her mouth to his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOM GOES THE DYNAMITE. \o/
> 
> Now in a very serious scientific survey: slow burn too long? Too short? Just right???? If any of you want to chime in. ;)
> 
> Anyhow, the "tipping over the emotional cliff" point could have honestly gone a lot of ways, but I preferred it happening in a more emotional context than Jonsa's unquenchable thirst. Otherwise it would happened two chapters ago when they were having that argument in Jon's lap. No method is really more "valid" than any other when doing this, it just depends on the tone and themes you're trying to set as an author, and also how much you want "communicated" between the couple before they bang-a-lang. And since I'm going true love/big romance on this one, we got ourselves a literal avalanche to set off Jon and Sansa on their metaphorical avalanche with their feelings.
> 
> Now, do they both know how wildly in ardor the other is with them, and that each of them wants to have dogs and babies and houses together? ...not yet. They've made a big step, but not everything has been conveyed between them yet. But that there are non-platonic feelings? Known. And do they want to bang??? Known SOON.
> 
> Now for some technical notes: I didn't grow up in avalanche country, so I'm not super well versed, but a lot feeds into what causes one of these bad boys to occur. Direction of the slope, composite of the ground, depth of angle, snowfall amounts, any freezing or thawing, type of precipitation (trust me babes there is more than one kind of snow out there), sunlight/how much sunlight/sun angle, and if there are people moving on the slope. What happened here was that a once in a generation wind storm piled drifts to depths and areas where such snowfall would never normally occur. That weight + Jonsa triggered an avalanche on the slope. But the shallow angle of it and rocky ground was also why Jonsa was able to somewhat climb during the event. Normally once you're in an avalanche, it has you until it stops.
> 
> So could Jon have been more observant and seen this before it happened? Possibly, and that's why he's so frustrated and angry at himself. But Word of God here, the avalanche was a freak thing, and it very much was a mistake about 97% of the Rangers in the Vale Service would have also made.
> 
> Now, tune in next time for:


	12. Bed Surface

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful picture above was gifted to me by the lovely, indomitable, hilarious, sweet as sugar [Norrlands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norrlands/pseuds/Norrlands) who makes the best damn manips you'll ever see in your life. Exhibit A: THAT PICTURE. ^^^^^^^^
> 
> She's already got a small collection for Avalanche [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27254170/chapters/66581365) which you should all go give kudos and nice comments to. She has a sexy picture of Ranger Snow in there. Just saying. 👀👀👀👀
> 
> Now, after my month long Election coma has ended along with my struggle on this chapter, I actually really liked how this turned out. The tone was hard to capture, but I got there!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it too. Now: BANG TIME PEOPLE. RING THE ALARMS.

The first forest fire he’d seen, he’d only been seventeen. A hundred thousand acres had gone up; the sky red as an open flame. The entire earth had been a match struck against the devil’s boot.

Ash had fallen like snow, and every breath had been like taking a mouthful of cinders.

He remembered the ridge. The sooty faces of the boys. The fear like a living beast as it gnawed through his ribs.

The Frostfang Fire been a _monster._ Devouring every tree, every inch of land; howling like the gates of all seven hells had opened beneath their feet. The fire had been screaming below their ridge, and the blaze had been so intense it’d whipped its own vortices. The fire had hurled embers at them. Coals the size of a man’s head. Full goddamn _tree trunks._

Spreading its hunger, letting them know they were nothing in the face of its wrath. It had clawed for them even through solid stone. He remembered sweat scalding off the back of his neck. The soles of his boots melting and leaving oozing footprints of tar on the ground.

Qhorin Halfhand had howled above it all. “DIG, YOU BASTARDS! LIVES ARE DEPENDING ON YOU! YOUR LIVES ARE DEPENDING ON YOU! DIG!”

Another trench. Another line to be held. It needed to be wide enough; deep enough that the fire couldn’t cross or find any fuel to burn. They had to turn the fire off its path. _Had_ to.

But there hadn’t been enough time.

Qhorin had gone silent. The fire had kept vaulting up the ridge, and Jon had seen their deaths writhing in front of them. Smoke thick and billowing black, the flames snarling through brighter and brighter and _brighter._

Burning alive was an ugly way to go.

He’d thought of Viz then, of Dany, of Grandma and Uncle Daeron, and Great Uncle Aemon already long in the earth.

His fingers had gone nerveless on his shovel. The fire had been deafening. Their screams would join it.

And then Qhorin had started bellowing: “TAKE COVER! HELO INBOUND! DOWN DOWN DOWN!”

They’d slammed into the far side of the trench, fire blankets wrapped around. The helo had opened early and knocked them to the bottom in a rush of boiling mud. But beyond them, the fire had shrieked and hissed. Super-heated steam roiled out. Jon kept his body covered and thought he’d gone deaf in the chaos.

Steam, smoke, flame—hell opening wide—and then the fire had turned.

He hadn’t thought anything in life could feel like that again. That cataclysm. That bone shaking relief.

That deafening thunder.

But here he was, his pulse pounding in his ears, and Sansa Stark safe against him while she kissed him gently. There was a calamity inside him. Self-hatred and starving desire, and each feeding into the other until he couldn’t control them.

And Sansa? Sansa was the _flood._

He broke away. His mouth was burning. One more second, one more—and he’d have her underneath him. Have his cock _inside her_. This time, he knew the fire wouldn’t turn.

It’d hit them broadside.

The light in her face wavered. “You don’t have to. I know that with the bruises…” And she pulled a curtain of hair against her face as if to cover herself. Hide from him.

He couldn’t survive it. “Sansa, honey.” And it scraped so raw out of him. “ _Honey.”_ He pulled the hair away and cupped her jaw on both sides. Kept her eyes on him where they belonged. “You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever met. You hear me?” And her skin was so soft against his palms.

“But the bruises—"

“And while I may be an idiot, I can _see_ what you look like under them, and sweetheart—” He was living in a dream. “You’re beautiful inside and out. Understand?”

She nodded, eyes glossy and mouth wobbling.

He couldn’t believe the universe was allowing him to do this. Wasn’t rending apart at the seams when he had his hands on her face and her eyes fixed on his. Things like this _never happened._ Not to him. Not ever. And yet…

“Would you kiss me?” She asked, soft and small with her eyes dropping low. No denying it now. When his tongue skated out, her eyes darted with it, shining out their naked hunger.

He’d never felt want go both ways like this. He wanted to drag her close and lick into her mouth, swallow everything she was, but: “Sansa—I can’t give you a kiss and have that be all it is. I’ll keep taking more, I won’t be able to stop, I—”

A moan slipped out of her. “I’ve wanted you so bad, Jon. Please, anything you want, _please._ ”

And how could he say no?

He dragged her head up and kissed her like the inferno. Lips to lips, her sighing breath, her mouth opening so perfectly under his. His tongue swept in and his skull was buzzing. His head was on fire. She met him slide for slide, dragging him in until he didn’t know which way was up.

She had the cleverest mouth on her that he’d ever tasted. Quick and sweet, and never giving him a moment’s respite.

She was going to knock his legs from under him.

He hauled her in. Soft, soft, so soft all over. Her breasts pressing against him; her body loosing one long and aching undulation that sent a bolt straight to his groin. The fire wasn’t only in his mouth now.

It was spreading.

One hand slipped to the back of her head, to the silk of her hair. He anchored her against him with a fistful. He canted her head aside and she went willingly; sighing and gasping as he left her mouth and found her jaw and then her neck.

Her pulse felt like a hummingbird fluttering against his mouth. He wanted her to _fly._

Her arms were around his shoulders, palming in spasmic little trembles against his back. His other hand skimmed down her side then slipped beneath her sweater; found more softness yielding so readily to him.

He drifted up with the pads of his fingers, always so careful of her hurts. “Yeah?”

She gasped. “Jon, my gods. Yes. Don’t you _stop.”_

So bossy even when desperate, and it only got him harder. She had to feel it now, his want of her, and his breath juddered as she only pressed her hips in tighter. Another roll of her body with his cock trapped between them. White-out. He was so hard now he was surprised it didn’t kill him.

“Holy _fuck.”_

“Uh-huh.” She breathed. “Put your hands on me.”

Gladly. His left hand kept sliding and he pushed her bra up; palmed one perfect breast before cupping it lower and rubbing a thumb over her nipple. She moaned softly, then louder, then so goddamn sweetly he stopped sucking a garden of blooms into her neck to swallow that sound.

It spilled like sugar on his tongue.

She was on her tiptoes now like she wanted to be as close to him as he ached to be with her. Share skin. Smear together. Lose all borders that had once kept them apart. He shifted to her other breast and gave it a sharp pinch.

“Oooh!”

“Uh-huh?”

She melted into his arms. “Uh- _huuuuuh.”_

“That’s my girl.” He breathed into her, and then that clever tongue of hers was back and nearly wrecking him again. He kept cupping her breasts, one after the other, pinching and rubbing until she was nearly a puddle in his arms.

“Couch.” She ordered, but his mouth and hands kept working. _“Jon_.” She whined. “Couch, I’m gonna lose my feet.”

He gripped the back of her neck tighter, but let his other hand leave the wonders of her breasts to hitch around her back. “I won’t let you fall.”

But as if to make some kind of liar out of him, she sagged and stopped carrying any weight. He swore and barely managed to keep her upright long enough to roll them onto the couch and pull her on top of him. Her legs were squeezing either side of his hips. Her cunt was right on his cock. He put his teeth into her neck and gave her backside a quick swat.

His own audacity froze him for a brief second, but then Sansa squealed in delight and ground down so hard against him he had another white-out. _Gods fuck._ Pleasure blinded him, and then Sansa was breathing hotly into his ear: “Are you going to punish me, Ranger?”

“Oh my gods.” _Oh my_ _fuck_. “You’re going to kill me.”

She rocked again, setting a rhythm that just might have him coming in his pants. “But then I wouldn’t get what I want from you.”

He felt drunk and every part of him was tingling. He still didn’t know which way was up—what was even reality. Maybe he’d died on the mountain, and the gods had seen fit to give him a wetdream of an afterlife with Sansa Stark at center stage. But if that was the case, he was bloody well going to enjoy it. He squeezed her to his chest with one hand and cupped her jaw with the other. “And what do you want, honey? I’ll give it to you.”

“Hard?” She asked coyly

He whimpered. “Uh-huh. Hard as you want.”

“You know—” And then she was slipping loose of his hand to drag her mouth along his jaw. “When we had that fight a few days ago, I wanted you to give it to me hard. I was sitting in your lap and I wanted it _so bad_ , but you didn’t put your cock in me. It left me aching.”

Holy fucking gods on earth. He didn’t know she’d had it in her. He loved that she had it in her.

He was going to _die_ knowing that she had it in her.

“That was terrible of me.” He agreed, punch drunk, but then got his hands up on her hips to set a pace to torture them both. He wouldn’t be outdone. “Hey, honeybee, wanna know a secret?”

She lifted away from his neck, mouth hovering over his. Eyes black. “Tell me.”

And he let this truth spill hot against her mouth. “I wanted to put my cock in you, too. Hold you on it until you were squirming and _begging_ _._ ”

She sucked in an excited breath. “You promise?”

He bit down on her lip. Soothed it. Met her tongue with his. “Yeah, since the start. Since that first night.”

Her lashes fluttered for a moment, and something softer spread through. “I’m so glad.”

So was he, but— “You’re in my lap again.”

And she reached down between them to make just enough space to palm his cock and give it a stroke. “I am, and what are you going to do about it?”

“Make all your dreams come true.”

And for a moment—just one—her gaze slipped distant. “I have a lot of those, it might be too much.”

He didn’t know how to answer that. Offered: “We’ve got time.” And didn’t know if that was the right thing to say, but a second later she was pinning him to the couch and kissing the life out of him. It had to be at least half-right.

It had to.

He got his fingers in her waistband and started rucking it down. She sat up and wiggled, moving her legs until she was sitting in front of him wearing his boxer briefs, and making them look better than he ever could.

He whined: “Why is that so hot?”

“What?” She asked. “These old things?” Then slid a hand right down the front until she was cupping herself.

With a snarl, he batted her hand away and slipped his own inside the briefs. She was already sopping wet; hot and dripping down his fingers like she’d been waiting just for this. He groaned. Blatantly. Kissed her hard. “Gods, you’re fucking perfect.”

And for once she had no tart answer, just a giggle and shimmy of her hips to push her cunt against his hand. He obliged her immediately. Dipped into her, pumped his fingers in, then found her clit.

Her mouth dropped open. Her eyelids fluttered. She clutched onto his shoulders as if this would collapse her. “ _Jon.”_

“Yeah, move like that, honey. Take whatever you want, I’ve got you.”

Her answering moan was loud and unapologetic, and he was _giving_ it to her. She started rocking again, and the sight of his hand moving against her while she was wearing his own damn underwear—he didn’t know why, but his brain nearly blew a fuse. “Fuck me.” He breathed.

Her breath shuddered: “Oh, I _will.”_

_To every god named and unnamed that I have not prayed to, I thank you for this earthly gift—_

She came with a cry, pulsing around his fingers until he was drenched to the wrist. There was firelight in her eyes.

She was the flood that would _ruin_ him.

The heat settled. Trembled away. She curled into him, breath so hot and wet against his throat. He immediately gathered her close. If he could keep her here, sated and panting and pressing grateful kisses to his neck forever—

He didn’t want to think of the future right now. Didn’t want to live past this moment. Whatever would come, it would come another day

Her breath puffed between each kiss. “You’re amazing. You’re so so _amazing,_ thank you.”

He smirked and laid his head against hers. “It was just an orgasm.”

“Shut your mouth,” She reared up. “And get your clothes off.”

And something slippery knifed into his brain. It actually took him a few addled seconds to remember what it was. This had never happened before. Since that time when—since his time with the Night’s Watch ended—most of his sexual encounters had been furtive one night stands, riddled with anxiety at how he could undress the least without seeming weird about it. Get what he needed to last another lonely year, and give the girl whatever he had left.

Even that fling he’d had with Val when she’d been up here selling her Grandfather’s cabin—it’d only happened a half dozen times, and the old man’s place had been so cold they’d only taken off the bare minimum. She’d left without saying goodbye; not even a note of farewell to send him off.

That’d made it painfully clear where he’d stood with her.

It’d been two years since. The anxiety had gotten to be too much in that time. It hadn’t seemed worth it when he was stressed through every encounter, and only left hollower by the end of them. He’d given up; lived with his hand and whatever fantasies he could conjure.

And yet here he was: hip-deep into fucking without his brain even _remembering_ that there was a problem.

“Uh.” His cock was hard. His cock was _weeping._ The anxiety was clawing, but its power had been halved. He didn’t know what was happening. “We don’t have condoms.”

Sansa went pink in the cheeks. “That’s…not entirely true.”

His brain skipped again; bounced right over the anxiety to ask incredulously: “You brought some with you?”

“No!” She yelped. “It’s just…when I was grabbing stuff in the bunkroom. There were, well, condoms in one of the drawers. I brought them down.”

The penny dropped. “Godsfucking _Hardyng._ Who did he even think he was going to fuck up here? A godsdamn Yeti?” And then the second penny dropped. His mouth turned sly. “Am I hearing this right? You thought we’d need condoms down here?”

She gave him a shove. It was a little thing; only bounced him back into the couch as she huffed: “No! Maybe I—no! I just knew they were waterproof, okay? We might have needed them for…stuff. Things.”

“Like me fucking you silly?”

Her face went red. “I don’t have to stand for this.”

His hands fell helplessly to her hips; brought her weight down on his cock once more. “You don’t. You can tell me to fuck off anytime. I’ve been handling things just fine on my own, I can keep doing it.”

Her eyebrow arched as her body ground _down_. The next groan ruptured from the well of his chest. Gods fuck. Gods _damn._

“Clothes, Ranger Snow. Now.”

His brain was scratching at the walls of his skull. He wetted his mouth, then asked nervously: “Is just pants-off okay?”

Her brow furrowed. Then, just when it felt like he might vomit up an organ, she smoothed out. Ran her hands along his shoulders; smiled. “Pants is fine, that’s all I need.” Then shrugged easily. “Besides, I didn’t take my sweater off either, it’s _cold_ in here.”

_Oh thank god._

The anxiety bundled down so deep that he could no longer feel it. He nodded dumbly and shucked off his pants without further complaint.

He wasn’t even sure this was happening. His vision was starting to fuzz at the edges. His blood was pumping hot.

Sansa stood up and hooked her thumbs in the briefs she had on.

His throat clicked. He cleared it. “Slowly.”

She did it _slow_. Hips rocking side to side, inching that black cloth down with tortuous deliberation. The firelight made the curls between her thighs even redder—made the slick smeared down her legs _shine._

It was a sight that could only be known in heaven. He must have been a saint in a past life. Her sweater draped back down when she was done; gave him tantalizing flashes of her upper thighs as she went to wherever she’d hidden the condoms. She had to bend over to get them, and that brazen flash of her cunt bare right before him—he was a man dying.

He was a man _undone._

He barely managed to get a blanket on the couch underneath him before she turned around. If anyone in the Service found out he’d fucked ass-bare on communal furniture, he’d never hear the end of it.

A flick of red hair. That flirtatious little grin he now knew was _all_ promise. She strutted back to him, tossed the condoms down, then took off his boxers herself. Thumbs again. Just as much caressing, and when his cock sprung free, she practically _cooed._ It shouldn’t have drove him as wild as it did, and yet—

Who was he kidding, she could just be standing here not sparing him a glance, and that would still get him hard. Having her pay this much deliberate attention to him, though…his scalp was tingling, and he couldn’t catch his breath. He was warm all over and only getting hotter. His thighs were still aching every place her fingers had touched him.

It’d never felt like this. Fucking. Sex. Whatever this was—

When she leaned in, he tilted up his head immediately. Accepted every languid kiss she offered like a man starved.

Her hand went between her thighs, came back wet as she grasped him. Started pumping. He could smell them both now, salty and obscene. Her tongue dragged against his.

He moaned. _Begged._ "Sansa, if you want me to—Stranger fucking _damn me_ —fuck you at all today, you gotta stop. You’re gonna wring me dry.”

She answered easily. “This is fucking, too.”

“No argu—holy fucking _shit—_ no arguments from me on that. But Sansa, please, I wanna be inside you."

“I want that too.” She answered, but before he could even think about grabbing her to put that plan to work, she dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth. It was once, just the once, but feeling that hot wet suction right at the core of him—

His eyes wrenched back into skull. _“Sansa!”_

He lost the thread. Lost his fucking mind. When he came back around, he inexplicably had a condom rolled on and Sansa hovering over him. Her knees were bracketing his hips; every part of her as glorious as he’d known she’d be.

She had one hand laced through his, and the other guiding his palm back under her sweater.

“Jon,” She whispered. “You’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

His hand moved of its own volition and found her breast; found that trust that she’d placed in him. He knew the truth. “I’m not.”

Their laced fingers clenched together. She stared him in the eye. “You are.” And then she sheathed him inside her.

He felt in his spine, his groin; that white-hot pleasure scalding up his back. Wet and tight and seating him _home_ like he’d always belong here. With her, inside her.

To her.

The world was blurring. His heart wouldn’t fit in his chest. He didn’t know which of them set the rhythm, only that he was rocking into her and then sliding deep. She grasped his shoulders and pulled them chest to chest. They panted together, breath mingling. He felt her sweat where her forehead was pushed against his.

“So good.” He gasped.

“Just like that.” She answered. “Jon, baby, just like _that.”_

He worked forward on the couch, let her wrap her legs around him and bump her ankles against his back. He wanted to be closer. He didn’t know how to be closer.

He slotted their mouths together again. Poured into her. Siphoned _out_ of her.

He wanted her to come again, and his free palm left her breast and found her clit. He started circling, pressing. Heard the slick sound of their bodies in harmony.

Their hands stayed laced.

“Jon.” She breathed.

 _Jon_ , she mouthed.

He was already strung out, worn thin. Fit to die in this very place.

But he wanted her to come. Fly one last time. He felt her clenching down and then he felt her _go_. Her cry broke on the air, on his mouth. He thrust up into her hard. Once. Twice. As deep as he could reach—

The fire finally turned, and he spilled with a shout inside her.

/~/~/~/

They laid together, limb over limb and an utter mess between their legs. But Sansa didn’t care. Neither did Jon, if the way he gripped her closer was any indication. He seemed to be cuddling her rather ferociously, now. Maybe she’d finally found someone who loved cuddling as much as she did, and that sent a rush of glee vibrating through her chest.

She didn’t know how this had happened. How she could be this lucky—have him say those sweet things while enflaming every filthy desire inside her. It was like he’d _known_ what to say, what she needed. As if they’d done this a thousand times already.

But it was a mystery that didn’t need answering; there was something here about looking a gift man in the mouth. Instead, she kept pressing her lips beneath his jaw. Felt the rasp of his stubble. She was finally mapping him as she’d yearned to. Hard, slanted, so very lovely.

Hers. At least for this hour.

Jon had a thumb at her hip endlessly stroking. The fire was crackling. The light was low. The heat would dissipate from her skin, and soon she’d be shivering. It still didn’t move her.

She just rubbed a palm at his shoulder blade; breathed the smell of his skin. “That was perfect.”

He let out a breathless chuckle. “Hey, don’t set the bar that high for a first outing. It leaves me no room for improvement.”

She snorted and amended: “It was adequate. _Barely._ ”

“Better.” And he twisted around just enough to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Do you want there to be a next time?” He asked her seriously.

Her kisses stilled but a brief moment. “We’re trapped here anyways. You’re great, I’m great.” And she leaned back so he could look her in the eye. He was already staring down. “I _want_ you.”

His entire body spasmed. “Gods, give a man a _little_ time to recover.”

She patted his side and returned to his jaw. “Then rest up, I’ll need you later.”

“You’re godsdamn right you will.” And then he dragged her up to slot a kiss against her mouth. Lingered there; long presses and so very easy.

She could do this forever.

How she’d ever doubted his want, she didn’t fully understand. But what all of this could mean…well, that wasn’t an answer she had yet. It was a question that was gnawing away, but right now, having him think the world of her, while she thought the same of him—

It was enough.

His thumb kept rubbing, and his voice drifted soft. “I didn’t pressure you into anything, did I?”

“No.” She answered firmly, because that sort of absurdity couldn’t be allowed to stand.

But it didn’t seem to crack into his thick head. “You’re still trapped here with me.”

“Maybe you’re trapped here with _me.”_ She volleyed petulantly. She felt another chuckle against her hair, but that wasn’t going to stop her from winning the point. “Jon Snow, if you _ever_ pressured me, I’d just scream once and then Lady would maul you. So there. You’re trapped with me—end of argument.”

He scoffed. “Ghost would protect me.”

“He could _try_.” And she patted his chest. “It wouldn’t save either of you.”

“Her leg’s broken.”

“And you think this would stop her how?”

The argument was won, and she could see it in his face when he grumbled: “Alright, cuddlebug, enough of that. Up you get.”

She wiggled down firmly. “No.”

“I gotta toss the condom.”

“That’s a mood killer.”

“I’m sorry the logistics are unsexy, but needs must, and we both have to take a piss.”

“ _Ugh.”_ And yet she found herself giggling. Because while post-sex logistics were unsexy, Jon had just made them unbearably funny. All the times before this, it’d been secretive or with that last asshole: scorned. She could still picture the ugly curl of his lip every time she’d gotten too much of a _mess—_ whatever the hell that meant—on him.

But then Jon kissed her again, long and deep, and she forgot everything that wasn’t him steady in her arms. She sighed happily when he pulled away. Decided: “Okay, you win. Dibs on the bathroom.”

He just grinned, eyes crinkling deep. “You got it, honeybee.”

She hugged him one last time, then squeezed him back twice more just because she could, and in those movements saw over his shoulder. She gasped. “Oh no!”

“Oh what?” And he swiveled them around to see.

And what she’d seen were two fluffy heads resting on the arm of the couch, furious and glaring.

Ghost ruffed loudly. Jon winced. “Hey, bud, I know it seems like I’m a hypocrite who wouldn’t let you bone the pretty girl you like, but—”

Sansa just wailed. “I’m a _bad mom.”_

“What? Sansa, you aren’t—”

“Debauching myself right in front of her innocent eyes—”

“She’s a _dog.”_

“That I failed because I’m a degenerate!”

“Oh my god.” He muttered, then picked her up straight off the couch. She squealed in his grip. “No, I’m not hearing it from any of you. I’ve had a very stressful day and just finished fucking the prettiest and nicest girl on the planet, and _none of you are ruining this for me._ ”

It nearly split her ribs in two. She let out a tiny gasp. “ _Jon.”_

He just smiled, smacked a kiss on her, then put her feet to the floor. “Go wash up; I’ll deal with the mutineers.”

Lady barked at them.

“No! I’m not having it!” Jon hollered back.

Sansa, naked from the waist down, sticky between her thighs, watching Ghost pick up the barking protest while Jon Snow, her favorite person in the world, equally naked and sticky as he argued with their dogs—

She could only laugh in joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doggos: BETRYAL. HIPOCRISY. DECEIT!!!! MOTHER AND FATHER LOVE US NOT.
> 
> Also, three cheers for Jon. He finally got his heart's desire: getting TOPPED. Eyyyyyyyyyy. Good for him. And Sansa got her some cuddlin' and that good fucking she deserved. Banner day all around. 
> 
> (And I hope this lived up to the sexual tension I've been turning like a torque in this one. 😬😬😬)
> 
> Now for whom it may concern...I think in this verse Jon and Sansa have a similar number of sexual partners. However, most of Jon's were one night stands, so in a rare turnabout for Jonsa, Sansa is the more sexually experienced of the two of them. Though to fair, they both know how everything works just fine. It may be more accurate to say Sansa is the more experienced between them of being in a stable and healthy relationship where she feels secure. You can all thank Edric Storm for that one. Anyhow.
> 
> Tune in next time for: Jon and Sansa sharing / acting out more than a few fantasies, grumpy doggos who have been BETRAYED, and unfortunately, some trauma Jon has tried to keep buried finally coming to light.


	13. Rime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So good news/bad news. I once again was bad at estimating how many words I could get something done in. Sooooooooooo we have another chapter that ended up splitting into two.
> 
> Bad news: Jon's whole trauma-thing isn't until next chapter.
> 
> Good news: I'm already 3,600 words deep into that, so we'll probably have another lizard brain situation where I'll be posting again within days. 🦎🦎🦎🦎
> 
> Now: strap in for some sexy, sexy filth, y'all. Treat yo' self. (FYI/warning for if you wanna spoil yourself: some roleplay, restraint/pinning, punishment/spanking, but Jonsa clearly having the time of their lives doing it.)

“See, look? It’s people food. You love people food!” And Sansa held out the strip of venison again, still hot and fresh from the pan.

Lady’s head swung back comically; nose thrust to the ceiling.

“ _Baby._ ” She whined.

Lady, incredibly, managed to swing her head back even further. Ghost darted one quick look to his companion and then quietly wavered. Slowly, his snout inched out.

Sansa immediately cajoled him. “Come here, Ghostie, look at all this nice yummy meat. Don’t you want some in your tummy?”

Ghost leaned even further, tongue dropping out of his mouth.

Lady reared back and nipped Ghost right on the side of his neck. He yowled and scuttled under the table.

She stomped her foot. “You little demon! That wasn’t nice!” And grabbed Lady by the snout.

Lady was remorseless, ears pinned as they glared at each other. Sansa gave her a harsh shake. “Don’t you bite! _No. Bad girl.”_

Lady’s ears nearly crawled off her skull, but her defiant glare turned guilty as it dropped to the floor. Sansa glared even harder, letting Lady _know_ she was keeping eye-contact before letting go.

“I take it Operation Win Them Back isn’t going well?” Jon called from the cellar.

She sighed explosively. “No! And stop being so smug!”

“I’m not being smug!”

“Well, you’re not being helpful!”

She could hear his voice coming closer. “They’ll forget all about this in a day. Ghost has the memory of a goldfish.”

Her nose scrunched. “Lady doesn’t.” And then she tossed the meat beneath the table. She heard the swish of a tail then the tell-tale scrabble of Ghost gobbling it up. “I thought you said Ghost still doesn’t like the cellar because of that possum, that sounds like a long memory to me.”

“It was a very traumatizing possum!” And then Jon jogged up the last stair and into very lovely view. Those arms that had held her, those thighs that had been under her. Those _shoulders—_ “I heard screaming. Did she get him?”

Sansa glared at her dog again. The beast was getting far too bite-happy for her liking. “I don’t think so—too much fur, and she honestly wasn’t trying. But maybe they’ll be too mad at each other for Ghost to try mounting her for the umpteenth time today.”

Ghost’s head popped out from under the table.

She sighed. “Or _not.”_

Jon looked decidedly amused. “Maybe he likes it.”

“What, his lady love being mean to him?”

Jon’s lips merely quirked as he crossed the room; arms around her waist and then pulling her into his chest. She melted into him immediately—still didn’t believe she could be with him like this. But by the gods, if she could, she’d put down foundations and refuse to leave.

She pressed a kiss beneath his jaw. Hummed.

Jon groaned. “Maybe he just likes her telling him what to do.”

 _Hello._ A flame licked so hotly inside her. “ _Does_ he?”

Jon gave her a boyish grin. “It’s been known to happen. You know, when a certain kind of girl gets all tart, and starts bossing a man around—”

“I don’t boss!”

“Hey, was I talking about you?” But that dammed sly grin of his said otherwise. So did his lips finding her neck: open-mouthed and hot. The scrape of his teeth and then the ravage of his tongue. “Said nothing about you, or how dark your eyes get when you want something bad, and I’m the only one who can give it you. When you’re gonna take it from me and make me beg. Why would a guy ever like that, huh?”

She gasped loudly, sharp as the crackling of that woodstove beside them. His mouth was hot on her ear; her body caught in his iron grip. He could do anything with her.

She wanted him to do _everything_ with her.

Her throat worked. Cleared. Jon’s teeth were dragging back down. He’d won his point; she could feel it in the curl of his smirk against her neck.

He wouldn’t win the game, though, and she wetted her mouth. “Any other fantasies you’d like to share with the class?”

His chuckle rumbled. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a hot-for-teacher fantasy, but if you keep this up—"

She made her voice _extra_ tart. “Stay on track, Ranger Snow.” And all for him.

He shivered against her. It had her shivering, too. Liquid and white-hot and already planning how she could get him on his back, or he on hers. She wasn’t picky about mechanics.

One of his arms skimmed up her back until his hand was gripping her neck. The pads of his fingers felt like brands _._ He hummed then; plucked a kiss from her. “There was also something in there about those lacy little gloves you wear at work. You’d be devilishly smart as always and see right through how horny I am.” Another kiss, and then he laughed, breath puffing against her chin.

He was smiling so brightly, and it was her turn to pluck a kiss. “Is that all?”

“When I get some connective tissue on it, I’ll be sure to tell you.” And then he let her keep drawing kisses from him, slowly and syrupy. Honey-sweet. “Gods.” He muttered. “That’s not even getting into your little _I’m paid to be bent over a table_ _all day,_ spiel. Honestly, how you managed to say that without any irony—”

And Sansa’s entire train of thought derailed violently. That lick of flame became a _bonfire_. “Um.”

He zeroed in. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

He gave her a little shake; pulled her up so she was balancing on her toes. “That didn’t sound like nothin’.”

“Just a little thought, nothing important.” She yelped.

But he was backing her up into the counter until he had her pinned. All of his weight. All of his _heat._ Her thighs already parting through sheer physics and desperate need. It made her lightheaded, especially when he growled: “Share with the class, honey.”

She gulped. “The…the gear room tables? And when we were getting dressed—or undressed, you’d bend me over one and punish me for—I don’t know, I’m still figuring that part out!”

But Jon’s grin turned voracious _._ “No, I think I got it figured fine.” And then bent her backwards to fuse her mouth to his. He sank into her until she forgot how to breathe; that she needed oxygen. She clung on and felt him swallow every whimper that she made.

From under the table, Ghost barked at them.

Jon groaned against her mouth. “Godsdamn, buddy. Can’t you just let me have one thing?”

She wiggled a bit and slotted her legs around his. Squeezed; sent a shot of pleasure zinging between her thighs. “I thought you already did?”

He cursed. “Don’t you start.” Then reached behind them to turn down the burner. “What’s for late-lunch?”

She pouted. “Nothing fun, apparently.”

“One more word, and I’ll put you up on this counter and have _you_ for lunch.”

Sansa squeaked.

/~/~/~/

How she got through their meal, she didn’t know. Separating the dogs thrice more—once beneath the table no less—while Jon was staring at her over their meal and eating every bite obscenely…

Gods above, did she relearn the meaning of patience at that table. And that she, quite possibly, found every single thing that Jon Snow did to be obscene. It wasn’t her fault; his mouth was just _like that._

When Jon finally left to changeover the laundry, she went to shut the dogs in their own rooms. She didn’t even feel guilty at their whimpers, because before going down to the cellar, Jon had shot a glance to the gear room.

“Up to you.” He’d grinned. “But if you wanna be waiting for me in there when I come back…?”

She’d practically scuttled out of the room with the dogs. Gods above. Gods _almighty._

She pinched her cheeks for color and took down her hair. Then, nearly shrieking to herself, rushed to change from her sweats and into leggings. She barely made it back into the room and managed to strike a doe-eyed pose before Jon stuck his head in.

The grin he’d left with hadn’t diminished, and it only widened at the sight of her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” And she batted her lashes. “Just be gentle on-center, hmmmm?”

And it was his turn to flush. Clear his throat. Look like the devil was after him.

There had been discussions over lunch of what she wanted out of this particular fantasy, and at every point she’d made on her fingers, his eyes had grown darker. His breathing heavier. He’d been near panting by the end of it.

She hadn’t been that far behind.

Game on, and Jon stepped into the room.

“What are you doing?” He snarled.

She feigned shock. “Nothing, Ranger Snow!”

“Yeah.” He snapped. “Looks like nothing. You were supposed to be bagging the gear an hour ago.”

Had she? She fought down a giddy smile. “I’m sorry, I got distracted. I’ll get right on it—” Then reached for the tables.

Jon caught her wrists in a hand like a _vice_. His palm was so big he took both arms with ease. She could feel the strength cording in his forearm; see the flex of it. He could yank her to the floor like this. Force her to him.

There was no breaking her hands away from him. In that moment, he could do whatever he wished with her.

She’d rather counted on it.

He hissed. “I’m done covering for your lazy ass.”

“I can make it up to you.” She pleaded, and at that answer, he transferred one of her wrists to his off-hand. Pushed her arms apart and pulled them flush.

She felt him half-hard already, aching against her hip in the same way she ached between her legs. For him. Always for him. A shiver passed through her so finely, it put her hair on end.

His eyes were burning. Without any warning, he shoved her into the table. Her back bounced off a sharp edge with a gasp. She begged again: “I can make it up to you, I can—”

“It’s too late for that.” He bit out, before spinning her around to force her downwards. Her face jammed into the table; cheek mashed flat to the surface. Both of her wrists were in a single hand at the small of her back. She was having trouble breathing, and it had nothing to do with being pinned.

Or maybe it had _everything_ to do with being pinned.

He gave her wrists a quick double squeeze in question. She wiggled her fingers teasingly, barely managing to brush his hand. She hoped he felt the softness in there for him.

“Alright.” He huffed, then grabbed her leggings and rucked them half-down. Cool air met her cunt. She was exposed. Shivering. _Shaking._

He dragged a hand up her slit and came away damp. He scoffed: “Why are you wet? Are you enjoying this?”

“No, Ranger Snow.” She was _very much_ enjoying this.

“Fucking gods.” He muttered. “Can’t even take a punishment properly, can you? Spread your legs.”

She tried to; the leggings didn’t leave much room for it.

He gave a harsh swat to her backside. “Wider.”

She strained to. In answer, he gave another hard shove, pushing her so far onto the table she was barely on her toes. Whatever leverage she’d had, it was gone now. His weight was bearing her down and she could scarcely wiggle.

No escape, and he knocked his foot between her ankles until he’d pushed her legs as far apart as he liked.

“Five.” Jon warned, and then his hand slapped open-palmed against her right arse cheek. The sting was _beautiful._ Red-hot; pulsing straight into her center with every strike. There was nothing she could do to stop him. She was more than wet now, she was _dripping_.

(But she knew that all she had to do was say stop—and he would. And that had her aching, too.)

Her wrists were straining; her hips were grinding into the table. Everything between her legs was _fire._

“I’m sorry, Ranger Snow. I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you tell me.”

“You haven’t been good yet.” And he put a little more weight on her back. She groaned and struggled feebly. “You keep promising that, but you never seem to learn. I’ll punish you until you figure it out. Sansa—five.”

She nodded into the table, and then his hand struck her left cheek.

“Oooh!” The burn was on both sides now, fanning outwards. Her legs were shaking. She jiggled her wrists then raised three fingers behind her back.

Jon groaned. “Got it. Gods, Sansa, you’re so wet and _red._ If you could see what I’m seeing—”

“Jon!” She snapped.

He staggered upright. “Right, sorry.” And then his voice dropped back to timber. “I don’t think the message has gotten through yet, has it?” Then, surprising her utterly, his fingers were between her legs and rubbing at her clit.

“Jon?”

“Ranger.” He corrected glibly.

She tried to get herself back on track while Jon shifted script. “Ranger Snow, what are you—”

“Teaching you a lesson.” And he gave one last rub before retreating. If she’d been burning before, she was throbbing now.

“Three.” He warned, and then his palm smacked off her right cheek before shifting the other. She got another three strikes there, and the blows off her already stinging skin felt _glorious._

Her every breath was fluttering her hair, humid and tangled. When had it fallen there? Jon smoothed it away from her face. “Eyes up here, are you going to be a good girl now?”

She squirmed just enough to turn her head towards him. Jon was trying very hard to keep a stern face, but with her glancing back—she could see the quirk to his lips. The delight shining in his eyes.

She’d never had this much fun with anyone.

His hand was back to stroking between her legs again, torturously slow. Not enough pressure. Not nearly enough.

“I’ll be good for you.” She promised breathlessly.

But she saw the dark gleam to his eye. “And what about this? Getting wet for your punishment, then getting it all over my hands—I can’t let that go, can I?”

“No.” She gasped. He better fucking not, or she’d skin him alive.

“No.” He agreed lazily. “I can’t.” And then he drew back his palm.

They made eye contact.

“Five?” But it came out a question from him.

She squeezed both her palms into fists. Nodded. Spread her legs wide.

He nodded too, and then his hand struck right across her bared cunt. Five times. Wet and stinging and utterly _earthshaking._

Her knees gave out. Jon caught the backs of her thighs with his, and pushed her wholly onto the table. “That’s a good girl.” He whispered. “So fucking good for me, taking her punishment and letting me use her cunt like this.”

“Keep using me.” She begged.

He leaned over her back and put his teeth into her jaw. Pressed his mouth to hers. Breathed: “I will, you aren’t getting off that easy.”

She could have wept for joy.

He released her arms. She could hear him fussing with his pants and then rolling on the condom. His hand came back to her wrists like it belonged there. “You know,” He said casually. “I did picture pinning your wrists above your head while fucking you into the mattress. We have to wash the sheets anyways today, so maybe we could—”

She didn’t know whether to kiss him or kill him. “Later!”

“Great.” He answered cheerfully, and then he was sliding home inside to fill her to the brim.

Stars burst behind her eyes; sent her into overflow.

His snarl broke across her back. “Godsgrace. Gods _fuck._ ” And then he was fucking into her, slow and steady until he was picking up speed. The pace was punishing. His force was _bruising._

She was strung between stars, and searching for that singular point of light. He’d take her there. He’d push deep and hold himself inside until she—

Another hard thrust. “ _Jon!”_ And then the game was forgotten.

“Just like that, Sansa. C’mon.” And he pulled her back; put her feet to floor to give her enough leverage to move against him instead of just _taking_ _it_ over and over and over.

Not that she’d minded.

She lost track again. The pleasure was smearing her, had her slurring: “You’re good, you’re so good. Please please _please—”_

“You got it.” His hand was on her hip, another clutching her wrists, and his breath— “You’re perfect just like this. So beautiful. So fucking pretty when you take my cock—”

She wailed loudly, and release came like the rupture of a star. Blackness. _Supernova._ It rippled and quaked and then ripped her apart. The world was reduced to nothing but that glorious burst and his cock buried so deeply inside her.

She felt him come like an aftershock. Trembling. Shifting down to lay panting and sweaty against her back. The tops of his thighs were hot against the backs of hers, and more than solid. He planted his face between her shoulder blades and stayed there.

They laid there in silence catching their breath. A fire popped and sparked. The winds whistled distantly against some mountain face.

Jon shimmied up so his cheek was flush to hers. “Everything you dreamed of?”

By the gods. “ _Everything_.” She exhaled sweetly.

His palm smoothed at her side. “Wasn’t too rough?”

She frowned, then poked him in the cheek with her nose. “Jon, you really need to learn how to put your back into a hit. Honestly.”

“Oh my _gods_.” He muttered. But the moment she broke down laughing, so did he, and they both laid there cackling until their legs could take their weight again.

/~/~/~/

There was a pain-relief cream in one of the bags. He didn’t have to go far before he was cheerfully rubbing it into her skin. She was glowing like the sunset, and he’d put it there. Was he proud about that? _Tremendously._

She hummed happily at his touch, but a few minutes later, cast a suspicious look. “Jon, the cream is _in.”_

He gave another long stroke to her arse. “Is it?” And managed to get one more firm grope before she swatted him away.

It didn’t stop her from kissing him after, though, nor curling her arms so sweetly about his neck. It was the height of victory as far as he was concerned.

They had to wash themselves three times before the day was done. He also used up three of the only twelve condoms, but it was worth it. Getting to be above her in the sheets later, hands pinned above her head in the way she liked, and getting to come inside her until he was seeing stars—

Did people get to be this happy all the time? Laugh so much, feel so unwound? No worries? No dark clouds above their heads?

It was an out of body experience, staring at her in their bed; her dazed eyes slowly coming into focus on his face until she smiled like the sun. Just for him, so brightly and sweetly. So gently given.

Though to be frank, it was also like he was living out some of the filthiest pornos that had surreptitiously been passed around Castle Black. Whatever release he’d found in sex before, it’d been over quick. If he was lucky he’d feel it for an hour. But here and now after being with Sansa—being allowed _inside_ Sansa—he was still buzzing and wallowing in the afterglow hours later.

It was strange, but…he felt good.

It had to be the newness, even though newness had never made him feel like this. Gods. There’d been an avalanche this morning, but the sight of her under him drove it straight from his head. They slipped together and parted so easily; no doubts in her face or tensions in his body ruining the moment. There was only her delighted laughter and teasing fingers, her come-hither eyes leading him right between her legs.

Her voice—his name breathed into being.

Only how much she wanted him, over and over and over.

He was a man living in a dream, and all he could wonder was when he’d wake. It’d been eleven days since he’d found her. They’d have a week or two more depending on how long the VFS chose to ignore them, but then…?

She’d go to KL, he’d go back to work, and where would that leave him?

He let go of her wrists. Her hair was wavy, frizzy—and his favorite shade of red. He pushed a thumb to her temple and smoothed back the flyways. Her sweat felt slick. He knew the taste of it now, and just because he could, he pressed an open-mouth kiss to her collarbone to taste it again.

Her thumbs skimmed his jaw. “Hey.” She whispered.

He rose up. “Hey.” And kissed her square on the mouth. “Let me make you dinner, huh?”

/~/~/~/

The next morning after waking to Sansa in his arms—he remembered there’d been an avalanche. 

“Ow.” Stranger shitting on the gods—

Sansa stirred then immediately starting whining. “Owwwwwwwwwwww.”

He squeezed her weakly. “I know, just stay still.”

She kept whining. “Ow ow _ow_.”

He peppered kisses to her neck and temple, then winced again himself. His legs, his back, his shoulders—gods above. Each was throbbing bloody as if every muscle fiber had been tied into a knot.

“How about we stay in bed all day?” He asked pitifully. It was a question he’d wanted to ask her before, and it was a godsdamn shame he wasn’t going to get a single filthy use from it. Why hadn’t he tried fucking her a week ago when his legs were working? Why had the gods cursed him with such ineptitude?

“Maybe we shouldn’t have had so much sex.” She announced miserably.

Like hell. “Bite your tongue.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll bite it.”

“I’d like to see you _try.”_

He gave an experimental pull at her, but his arms burned so badly he didn’t even bother completing the attempt. With a wretched sigh, he pulled her closer to him and pouted.

“Ow.” She announced.

From the floor, Lady poked her nose into Sansa’s face, then jammed her entire head onto the mattress.

“Doggy breeeeeath.” Sansa moaned. Lady’s mouth opened in a grin, obviously delighted, and licked Sansa across the face. She shrieked: “No, go lay on the floor!”

Lady did not go lay on the floor. She just nuzzled their faces together and ruffed happily.

At his feet, Jon felt Ghost stir and then flop over his legs. Jon whimpered. “Honey, I think we’ve been done in.”

Sansa just grumbled: “If they try to mount, it’s your turn to throw a pillow at them.”

/~/~/~/

He got them hot water bottles at some point, bemoaned the shut off furnace, then brought them some peanut butter on crackers. All the while he hoped, rather intensely, that Sansa hadn’t noticed him shuffling around like an old man. The last thing he needed was for her to be put off having sex with him when he’d finally, _finally_ gotten her into his clutches.

He groaned as he sat. The mattresses being on the floor was really starting to kill him. “We wasted so much time.”

Sansa propped herself up, then neatly started diving the crackers between themselves and the dogs. “I know. Stupid, right?”

A question wormed behind his teeth. “Did you really not know? I felt like my tongue’s been hanging out of my mouth since you got here.”

She snorted. “I _wish_. That would have made things easier.” But then her face went pensive. “I dunno. I thought…you’re so amazing, Jon. And I’ve been having such a hard time and being such a disaster, that the thought you could be interested in me—I couldn’t believe it.”

He put a hand above her knee and waited until she looked up. “You’re great too, I’m lucky.”

She smiled shyly. “Thank you.” Then made a little face at herself. “Besides, good looking Ranger like you, maybe you had a girlfriend.”

He swiftly pushed it back. “Not at all. Kinda hard to date up here. Unless you’re into sentinel pines and find all that sap sexy, in which case—”

She slapped her palm over his. “You know, maybe I _don’t_ need to hear your fantasies.”

That had him laughing. “Lips sealed.”

“Not too sealed.” She answered flirtatiously, before deciding: “Maybe I didn’t want to be rude, coming on to my rescuer unsolicited.”

“And maybe I’ll consider it rude forever more if you _don’t_ come on to me. I gotta quota, Stark. You better meet it.”

A flicker of her teeth; white as pearls as she bit down on her lip. She closed the space between them and pressed her mouth to his. He could manage this much exertion at least, and he returned pressure for pressure. Leaned over. Dipped his tongue in when her mouth slipped open.

She pulled back. “I’d ask you why you didn’t try earlier, but you’d probably say—"

“You were trapped—”

“ _—you’re trapped Sansa.”_ She sing-songed in a nasally tone that sounded nothing like him.

He made a face, and she made a face right back. She maintained her glare while smacking a cracker in front of Lady. To his ever-lasting surprise, Lady carefully nosed the treat over to Ghost. Looking like he’d won the lottery, Ghost swallowed it whole and then woofed.

“It was an honest worry.” He muttered, but if she could be honest, so could he. “Honey, you’re brilliant, and I had to get my GED in juvie. I thought if you were interested in me, it’d just be for…” He couldn’t finish it, throat stinging ugly at the thought.

It could still be true—his looks were all that had drawn women to him before.

Sadness rolled over her. “Jon.”

He was staring at her knees.

“Jon.” And it brought him back up. She flipped his hand over and curled their fingers together. “Those first few days I wanted you so much, and not just because you’re handsome, but because you’re brave and gentle and strong. You’re a good person, and I didn’t see myself that way, so how could you even like me? And I couldn’t…just couldn’t be with you one night and leave. I can’t bear to have that little with you.” And then her lips started trembling. “Everything’s been so horrible these past weeks. My whole life’s in freefall and—I’m scared. I don’t know where I’m going or if it’s going to be okay. But when I’m with you, I’m not afraid. I’m not, so…"

A tear tracked down her cheek. She moved to cover her face, but he cupped her hands gently and then wiped away the tear with his thumb.

He’d been there once, pushed out of everything he’d built and abandoned in unchartered waters. He’d been lucky; he’d had Viz looking out for him and Jeor Mormont willing to track him down and offer a job. Truth was, he didn’t know where he’d be without them, but it probably wouldn’t have been anywhere good.

But did Sansa have a Viz, a Mormont? Could she lean on her family the way he had on his?

“It’ll be okay.” His body burned with it, but he moved to her side anyways and pulled her half into his lap. “It will be. I know everything’s just…up in the air right now, but I want you to know that you being here with me—however long it is, it’s the happiest I’ve been in years. This matters to me.”

She sniffled wetly and buried her head into his shoulder. “It matters to me, too. I just don’t know what I’m…”

“You don’t have to. We’ll stay safe in the cabin until the VFS figures a way to get us, then you’ll go back to KL and figure things out. If—” That knot was back in his stomach again; acid chewing to a terrible truth. “Can I talk to you about something? In KL?”

She went very still besides him. “What?” And there was something in her voice that he couldn’t place. Reedy. Fluttering.

He swallowed. “I don’t want you to think I’m telling you what to do. But it’s just…when you told me about what happened to Lady, I don’t know if that guy in the woods—” And he forced himself to state it plainly: “I don’t think he was there for your dog.”

She sat upright. “What?”

“Sansa—I’m honest to gods terrified that man was there to hurt you.”

Her mouth dropped open. “But he was in the woods waiting for—”

“Honey.” He said softly. “You don’t know what he was waiting for, only that Lady found him first. I’m worried about you going back there. Assholes like Lannister—they don’t take humiliation easy.”

“Oh.” And it was so small, so crumpled out of her, that it rendered his heart in two.

He’d had to say it, but he _hated it_. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” Her voice warbled. “It’s good that you told me—I should be…I should be careful.” But she kept staring off into the bookshelves. Lady was already moving, shoving her head into Sansa’s lap and glaring around at everything and anything in the room.

He shared the sentiment; wished he could go to KL and wring that foul Lannister’s neck right this moment. Do worse.

Sansa’s hand reached down and fisted a cloud of fur. Her eyes were like glass. “I can’t live there anymore, can I?”

He’d never felt so wretched. “I don’t know.”

“So I have to move too.” She said, gaze still shell-shocked and unseeing on the walls.

His arms were still around her, and he tucked her to his body. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’ll be doing for work, but I know you’ll find something.” A calling that’d be so far away from him. And even though it killed him to say it, he finished: “Some big sparkling city that you’ll like just as much. I know it’s out there.”

“I hope so.” But it was such a tiny sound, and all he could do was hold on.

/~/~/~/

They laid in bed the rest of the day, and Sansa stayed quiet.

Come morning they shuffled around, but every time he was at the stove, Sansa wrapped her arms around him and kissed him soundly.

He knew there wasn’t a future between them. He knew he was borrowing time they didn’t have.

But his greedy heart would gorge itself on and on and on.

He couldn’t stop. The third day after was as cold as damnation, and when he took Sansa to bed, he kissed every inch of her body before sinking into her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon is a pessimist, and so is Sansa. Woe. But hey, at least there was some hot sex first.
> 
> Me @ the universe: just let Jon be a service-top and touch Sansa's butt, is that too much to ask??? And let Sansa continuously get what she wants while bossing a man around, until they end up happily ever after. Small wishes here, universe.
> 
> Meanwhile, was there much discord and then makeups in House Doggo. Truly the A-plot of this fic. 
> 
> Besides that...I got nothing!
> 
> Tune in next time for: Jon's trauma for realsies, because I've already written it down. ಠ_ಠ


	14. Fracture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lizard Brain: W I T N E S S M E. 🦎🦎🦎
> 
> Should I have sat on this chapter at least another week? Probably. Am I going to????? Nope!
> 
> Here's the next one, though be warned, it's the heaviest one in the fic. For those of you who like to live dangerously, head right on in. For my babes with easily bruised marshmallow hearts like mine own, there's a list of warnings in the bottom author's note.
> 
> Strap in.

She’d been a dark little cloud lately, she knew it, but they only had so many days together and she was tired of wasting them. Whatever was waiting for her in KL, it’d be waiting for her still. No use dwelling until she actually had to deal with it.

Her body wasn’t so sore now, and the bruising—well, it’d turned mostly yellow. In the firelight it might even be invisible.

Jon hadn’t seen her bare yet; put his mouth on her breasts in a way she desperately wanted. So that afternoon she poured them both some _medicinal purpose,_ unearthed a portable CD player, then decided that Operation Topless was a go.

Not that Jon would get any warning. She liked her warfare…asymmetrical.

Lady joined her in the front room. The boys were outside, probably doing something unspeakably manly that she’d ask Jon to explain in detail before letting him inside her. Maybe she’d even do it while sucking him off—she did love making the man stutter.

She took a sip of bourbon and sighed happily. Oh, it was lovely when a plan came together.

She cued the CD player and the speakers started pumping. Slow beat, synthy, and absolutely fuckable to. She checked the name scrawled across the plastic in marker. _Hardyng._ If she ever met the man, she was going to have a great number of questions for him.

Maybe the Yeti liked synth.

She giggled outrageously to herself and took another drink. Hips rocking; swaying dreamily into her own world. Lady joined in, circling around and tail awaggle, clearly not having faintest idea what was going on but wanting to join anyways.

“Who’s my good girl? Who dances so well?”

Lady’s tail popped straight up.

“You!”

Lady whipped into another circle.

“How are you so _cute?”_

But dogs aside—she and Jon deserved an indulgent night. And Sansa, well, she deserved another sip of her drink and for Jon to get back soon and put that mouth to _use._

And gods, he hadn’t had her for lunch yet up on that kitchen counter. It was truly a shame, but maybe someday soon…

Another sip, and it sank thick into her blood. Somewhere behind her the backdoor swung.

“We having a party?” Jon called, and she heard him shifting off his gear then padding through the kitchen to the front room. He was saying something again, breath sucking in—but then it sucked too sharply.

She pretended not to notice him, letting her thighs and hips undulate to the beat.

“Shit.” He muttered, and if she smirked, only the wall in front of her bore witness.

Her head tilted back. “Have fun outside?”

“Not as much fun as you’re having in here.”

“What.” She asked innocently. “Dancing?”

A spark flared to life. He stalked right over and palmed her backside. She giggled outright and offered: “Here’s your drink.”

“You could at least _pretend_ that my hands are busy.”

She wiggled her arse and gave him the glass. “Drink.”

And he, most magnanimously, took one hand off her backside and swiped the glass. He sank it.

“You’re supposed to sip that!”

“I got better things to drink.” And then he was tugging back her neckline to put his mouth to her shoulder. His other hand left her arse to skim to her hip and then her stomach. He had the right idea, but not nearly right enough.

She tugged his mouth from her. “Put the dogs away.”

He nearly stumbled to get it done, all howling complaints stringently ignored. She waited for him to get back. Waited for his eyes to rest firmly on her. In one smooth move, she grabbed her sweater by the hem and dragged it overhead.

There was only bare skin beneath.

Jon nearly tripped. “Holy gods— _Sansa.”_ And his eyes were dark; wide in his face as if he’d devour her whole. Then his tongue skimmed out, and she knew he’d devour her in other ways, too.

His gaze flickered downwards. Up to her face. Back down.

She picked up her glass and took a smug sip. “Look your fill.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat that was half a whine. But then, quite rapidly, he was stalking to her and skimming his hands up her body. It sent her shivering; her skin blooming with heat in the cold of this air. A palm found one bare breast and pinched her nipple. She squealed. “No, Jon—I want your mouth.”

His breath fanned hot. “Do you, honey? How bad?”

Her nipples were pebbling. Her hands left shaking. “I’ll let you fuck _my_ mouth later.” And his grip turned downright _avaricious_. She dipped her fingers into her glass and smeared bourbon down her breast.

Jon groaned, breathed in this gasping little hitch—and then his mouth was on her. One hard suck while his fingers cupped her other breast.

She nearly dropped her glass.

If she’d thought he’d been a good kisser—dear lords, had that only been a preview. Flicking and sucking and dragging so slick, that every movement sent a wet flutter between her thighs. She wondered if she’d come just from this. Mouth and breath and heat and spit—

He grinned up at her. “I love the noises you make.”

Rather belatedly, she realized she’d been moaning. Whimpering. She gasped: “I love your mouth.”

“Gods.” He muttered, and then his lips were lavishing her other breast with gusto.

The Seventh Heaven was surely Jon Snow’s _mouth_. Someone had to call the High Septon and give him the news. Get him to sanctify—

A pull of her nipple against his teeth. Her demanding: “Bed. _Now.”_

They moved fast, arms grasping and mouths tangling. They nearly tumbled through the door and then down onto the mattresses. It was not a short fall. She giggled at the impact, winded, but then Jon was pulling her on top of him and all else fell away.

Golden as the bourbon; that taste of him. Gods. A molten heat pooled on her tongue, her throat—dripped down, down, _down_ between her thighs.

Her breasts were aching, damp from his mouth as she pressed against his clothed chest. It wasn’t enough. She wanted skin; him and her and nothing else between them.

Sunspots behind her eyes. Their bodies upright. His mouth hot and open; her sucking on his tongue.

Her fingers scrambled at his waist. She caught the hem of his shirt, lifted—

And Jon flinched, hands slamming on hers and forcing it back down.

A light came through the fog. She’d forgotten. “Sorry.” And then she slotted her mouth back to his in hopes they could ignore it. Her hands slid farther up his torso, settled on his shoulders, and Jon kept kissing her. He kept kissing her…

But his hands were still knotted in his shirt. Between one moment and the next, the momentum went out of him. He was still pressing his mouth to her, but the body beneath her was a different beast. Tense. Jittery. Sharp enough to _cut._

She stopped cold. “Jon?”

His eyes were fever bright, and he moved to kiss her again.

“We’re stopping now.” She said, and he froze in place. An animal in the headlights. A limb caught in the trap.

He swallowed convulsively. “Did I hurt you?”

It was very, very odd that he’d asked that. She kept herself calm. No overinflection; neither airy nor severe. “You’d never hurt me. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” But his tongue darted out, the shift of his mouth too rapid to follow.

He was like a pillar of concrete under her now. She moved off him and onto the bed. He didn’t try to pull her back.

“You don’t have to say anything.” She said. “Do you want to go have dinner? Or we could play Clue.”

“I…” But he didn’t answer. He looked a man lost and then a man ashamed. His gaze dropped to the floor, and she’d never seen him so timid.

It scared her.

It _infuriated_ her.

Calm as the summer breeze; warm and slow and easy. “I can go get Ghost if you want?”

His eyes kept darting. His hands had curled into fists, arms corded so tight she thought the bones would fracture. She wanted to touch him but didn’t know if it was the right thing. She rose then, intent on fetching Ghost.

At that, Jon finally snapped out and grabbed her. “Sorry. It’s just—it’s nothing. We can get right back to—”

She smoothed her hands over his, rubbing softly, then brought his hands to her mouth and kissed them. She sank back to the floor. “Not until you’re okay.”

“I can be—” And his voice broke. “ _Shit.”_

There was something in his eyes: grey, glassy, _afraid_.

She kept rubbing his hands. “Shhhhhhhhh.”

His lungs rattled. He took a sucking breath, another. She remembered learning about panic attacks in college. Remembered the narrowing—the world collapsing and being unable to claw her way out—all finally making sense to her. She started humming and traced the bones in his hands. Wrist to knuckle; back again. “It’s okay, we’re in the cabin. Everything’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He barked a laugh, ragged and ugly.

“I’ve got you.” She repeated, and he bent nearly in half to press his face against her hands.

It shattered her. She slipped her fingers into his hair and let her nails dance along his scalp. The sobs she felt building inside—she swallowed them.

The logs in the fireplace shifted. She counted minutes by the strokes of her hand.

Jon rose slowly, damp forehead leaving her skin as his face turned away. “M’sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for right now.”

“There is.” He muttered. “I owe you an explanation. Gods, I’m not drunk enough for this.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” And her grip seized him. “And no more drinking tonight. We’re both cut off.”

“Okay.” He agreed, no struggle in it, and he was back to staring at her knees. “I want…fuck, I just need you to know. I’ve got scars on my abdomen. Really bad scars and I can’t—I don’t like people looking at them. I don’t like having them touched. I just—I can’t.”

“Okay.” She agreed softly. “I won’t touch them, and I won’t look at them. I’m sorry that I messed up and forgot. It’s okay if you want to keep your shirt on, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

He jolted. “You knew?”

She shook her head. “I just knew you didn’t like it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He blurted. “It’s fucked up.”

She gave his hands another soft squeeze. “Jon, I never took off my shirt with my boyfriend in secondary. I thought my boobs looked weird.”

That cracked a grin out of him, stone chipping so jagged. He huffed: “Your boobs aren’t weird.”

“I figured that out on my own, but thank you.” And she couldn’t help but sigh for that younger girl. “My point is—I’m a woman who grew up in Westeros. Believe me, I fully get what it is to be self-conscious about your body. I’m just sorry that you got hurt.”

“I didn’t get…” And another swallow came like he was trying to keep down organs. “It was fucked up. I thought I knew what I was doing, but I didn’t.” And his breath rasped. “I didn’t know.”

It crossed the room like a death rattle.

She hummed softly. Not willing to ask and not willing to tell him to stop. Whatever he wanted.

“It’s a bad story.” He whispered.

And she knew: “I’ll listen.”

His mouth worked. He was pale as bone; eyes so wide they could swallow the sky. “I told you I became a full-time ranger for the Watch, right? I was a trainee awhile and then a part-timer—but then I got the full gig. I did assignments out in the bush awhile and I was good at it, especially at tracking down poachers. All the police departments up there are thin on the ground. Not a lot of funding. There was this poaching ring they want to go after, but they didn’t have any undercovers left with an unknown face. So they went to the Night’s Watch to make it a joint operation.” His hands shook. “And they picked me for cover.”

Her lungs felt airless. Breathless. She kept gripping his hands like a lifeline.

“Thing was, this poaching ring…all the suspected members were Freefolk.”

And her heart wrenched. “Oh gods.”

He saw the understanding in her. “Yeah, it was—yeah.”

She’d studied Northern history front to end and then in triplicate. The Freefolk and the citizens of the North couldn’t be genetically differentiated—they were all descendants of the First Men, and considering the bride stealing the Freefolk had partaken in, their blood ran thick with Northern Westerosi.

But the Freefolk hadn’t been part of the North for centuries, left to their own devices in the mountains of the Wall. Their culture had been just as rich as anyone's, but technologically—they’d fallen behind a long time ago. And when early mining interests and later oil barons had realized the treasures of those mountains, they’d been annexed. The wars had been bloody; guerilla-based on the Freefolk’s part and absolutely grinding.

It hadn’t saved them.

Their lands had been taken and they’d been summarily absorbed. What didn’t belong to the mining interests was now part of a Kingdom reserve. A Kingdom reserve Jon had worked for: the Night’s Watch.

The poverty, cyclical abuse, alcoholism, and drug problems in the Freefolk communities—they were a well-known if largely ignored fact. It was, in Sansa’s opinion, one of the great shames the North had brought on itself.

“I got tangled up in it real fast.” Jon said, and his voice dropped a stone in her gut. “They were…they weren’t bad people, but they were poaching. Sometimes it was to help feed their families, other times—” He shook his head. “Once saw a guy sell a bear gallbladder so he could buy a lift for his truck. It was their land they said, their right to hunt no matter who tried to take it from them. I almost…they took me in. I pretended I was some kid new in town, and they treated me like a friend. And they just—there was this woman involved a few years older than I was.”

And Sansa saw the terrible shape of it.

“I shouldn’t have gotten involved with her, she just—she was so _intent_. And fuck, there weren’t exactly a lot of girls up in those parts, let alone at CB. I was stupid and let myself get in too deep.”

She hated the recriminations in his voice. “Jon, you weren’t a cop. They shouldn’t have picked you for this—did they even give you any training?”

He shrugged weakly. “A little.”

She bet it was none at all.

He shrugged again. “They were…the group started getting violent. There was some old man who wasn’t Freefolk out hunting, and when they found him, they beat him half to death for being in their territory.”

She gasped. “Were you—”

“Right there.” And his eyes were wet. “Right there, and I didn’t do a fucking thing. The Watch told me to always keep cover, and they thought it was funny that I was sleeping with—” He choked it off.

She pushed past that sticking point. “What about the old man?”

“I—” He breathed sharply. “I doubled back around dragged him out of the woods. I think—I don’t know how, but that broke my cover.”

Nausea writhed inside her. Her eyes swept shut to hold in the tears. “Jon, was it them who…?”

But he shook his head. “They invited me over another night. I thought everything was fine until they beat the ever-living shit out of me. She did, too.”

Horror pulsed inside her cold and curdled, because how could anyone who’d ever been allowed in Jon Snow’s arms decide to hurt him? It was insensible. It was _mad._

“But I got a text off, see.” And he scoffed so bitterly. “The cavalry arrived. Orell made this big deal like he was gonna shoot me, but even he put his gun down at the end. I thought it was over.”

It didn’t make sense; she didn’t understand where—

“Then the cops shot him twice in the head.”

Her gut plummeted. “What? _Why_?”

“Corruption, bad blood. I don’t know the full story. But when somebody dies during the commission of a crime, even if it’s one of the criminals—” He pointed at himself. “Like assaulting a kingdom employee in the course of his duty—if one of your buddies dies, that’s murder. The prosecutor charged the whole ring for Orell on top of everything else.”

She shook her head in bewilderment. “The Watch—”

“They knew, some of them were there on the raid. Thorne. Marsh. They saw it. Mormont—he was the guy who helped coordinate your rescue. He used to be Commander of the Watch when I was there, but sometime while I was under, he got forced out. After that, the bigwigs wanted the takedown at any cost. They started pressuring and pressuring me, so when I broke cover…” His gaze was beyond her now, beyond this room or any of its borders. “All I had to do was testify. Go to trial, say Orell was going to kill me. Make it a clean shoot. Do it for the Watch and our friends in the department.”

But she knew Jon. _Knew_ , and it severed something inside her when she realized: “You didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t.” And his laugh was half-hysterical. “Thought I was this big paragon standing up for justice. That the truth would set us all free. Make it up to those people—poaching is four to six years at most, but murder? That’s twenty to life.”

All over a man who’d pointed a gun at Jon and beaten the life out of him—but Jon didn’t need to hear it. Had probably heard it from more than her already. She wanted to take him up in her arms and stop what was coming.

But she couldn’t.

“They got my testimony stricken somehow. The judge—I don’t know what if he was on the take. They said I was traumatized; that it wasn’t the same story I’d given in deposition. Perjured myself.”

“Those bastards!” And she could have eviscerated a man _alive._

“Everyone was a bastard up there.” He muttered. “Good old boys. You got with the program, or you got the fuck out.”

She wanted him to be out. Wanted him to say that he’d left, that he’d quit.

“They got convicted, all of ‘em. Thirty plus at Queens. What I tried to do—it didn’t matter.”

“You did the right thing.” She insisted. “That _did_ matter.”

“It didn’t.” He said, and then his eyes finally rose to hers. There was nothing in them. Ash. Dust. Dark.

A gaping chasm opened in her chest.

And there was nothing in him. “It wasn’t two weeks after. I was on desk-duty, nobody was talking to me but the guys I’d been brought up with at CB. I went home one-night and there were—there were—”

His entire body _struggled_ with it.

“Jon.” Her insides were ripping in two. “Jon, please.”

“I gotta.” And his nails dug into her palms. “There were three of them. They had knives. They had—they were in their hands, and they said: _for the Watch.”_

The horror inside her clawed and shrieked—

But his voice was perfectly empty. “And then they gutted me.”

A howl whipped so loud in her skull that it was deafening, screaming bloody and ripping her _wide._ She was scrambling; pulling him into her body so forcefully she might drag him inside her ribs to keep him. Safe. Safe safe _safe_ where nothing ugly could have him again.

Her head was rushing. Drowning. _Howling._

His arms came around her. “Sansa. Sansa, honey.”

She clawed him in tighter. How could they do that? How how _how_ could those rotten fucking monstrous worthless pieces of shit—

It filled her every pore, her fingers and guts and the baying void in her ribs. She hadn’t realized.

There had never been hatred inside of her until this day.

It was grotesque. It was an _inferno_. It’d burn her lungs out from the inside and rupture her open.

“I’m okay.” He promised. “It’s been years, I’m right here.”

But the tears were coming fast. This wasn’t about her. It _wasn’t._ ”I’m s-sorry.”

“Shhhhhhhhhh.” He hushed, and then they were rocking together, clinging to each other like the last raft in a storm.

The side of her neck was damp, so was her face. Jon buried himself in her hair.

She felt his words more than she heard them. “Had a neighbor—Mel. She read palms, saw stuff in the fires, was up at weird hours. She scared ‘em off somehow. Called the ambulance and held me together until it got there.” So much remained unsaid, and yet his pain bled through until it lapped against her bones. “I wrote my resignation in the hospital and went south as soon as they discharged me. I didn’t look back.”

“The cops?” She asked.

“Half-assed it. They never even called me after. Said it was a mugging.” And then his arms spasmed around her; chest hitching wet.

She snuggled down into him. There were no words for this yet. She wasn’t sure there ever would be. Only being here with him, and she kissed his brow.

“They were supposed to be my brothers.” He whispered. “I don’t even know which of them it was.”

Her eyes slipped shut and burned for the cruelty of it. “I’m so sorry. You deserved better. You did the right thing, and they tried to tear your down so they could hide their crimes. You weren’t wrong—you were never wrong.”

He was shaking under her. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“That’s alright.” She said. “It’s okay.”

But she could only hope that would be true.

/~/~/~/

He dreamed the black that night. He’d known he would. Telling her—it brought all that rotting terror festering to the surface.

It was always the same, that walk back to his apartment. The streetlights thinning. The black pressing in. The cold so sharp every breath crystalized in his lungs. Some nights, he dreamed of copper already sluicing between his teeth.

Dread coiled bulbous, _smothering._ Distending his gut until it was frothing up his throat.

He couldn’t wake.

_Turn around. Turn around. Turoundaroundroundround—_

The nightmare kept gliding. Snow crunching, his building’s dimensions in impossible shapes. That back door with its piss-yellow light, and then him seeing—

The slash across the door. The weep of its words.

_TRAITOR._

_Don’t turn around dontdontdont—_

His nightmares made the figures waiting monstrous in size. Towering and faceless; the glitter of their knives like flares in the dark.

He’d only gotten off a shout. Two blows, a crash of bodies, and then the first knife found him so sharply he’d barely felt it slip in. But the burn after, the _burn._

_Wake up._

Another knife, another and another until his body was unhinging. Head lolling; knees crashing into the snow drenched red all around. And then Melisandre had been at her window screaming like a siren.

_THE LORD OF LIGHT SEES YOUR SINS IN THE DARK. THE HERETIC WILL FEEL R’HOLLORS MERCY IN THE CLEANINSING OF HIS FIRES, YOU WHOSE HANDS ARE BLACK IN THE NIGHT—_

The shadows had gone like a scattering of crows. Light dimming. The red of her eyes, her mouth, her hands when they’d come away from the raw cavern of his gut.

Except this time, Mel’s eyes weren’t red.

They were blue.

Jon came awake, heart thundering, the whole left side of his body aflame. His gut felt torn wide and he went clutching for his abdomen. It was done, it was over, it wasn’t happening and the pain wasn’t _real._

He swallowed something and it was only his own spit, not the blood of his half-bitten tongue. Just spit, and he was past this—but it felt like his guts had been wrenched out of him again. The air was black. There was nothing he could see. _Nothing._

But there came a voice gently. “Jon.” Soft little fingertips followed it, slipping up his arm to his shoulder. “S’okay.” A kiss found his cheek, the hinge of his jaw, the spasm of his throat where his pulse still pounded.

He took a sucking breath, and the glow of the fire came in. He was in the cabin. The Vale. Slowly, he sagged into the mattresses.

Sansa curled over him, hand rubbing rhythmically at his shoulder. She returned to his face and began peppering him with kisses. One found his mouth, and then she nuzzled his cheek. “You’re alright, just a dream.”

“Just a dream.” He agreed faintly.

Sansa nudged away a little. He didn’t want her to go.

She called: “Ghostie.”

And even in the dark, he could see the white swath of fur jumping up from the fire. Ghost poked his nose at Jon’s face with a whimper, then quickly settled into his side. The dog put his fuzzy head directly onto Jon’s heaving chest. His next breath was easier; the one following even kinder as he buried a hand into Ghost’s fur.

He matched his breathing to the dog, or maybe Ghost matched to his. He saw a greyer shadow farther on; Lady rising up from Sansa’s side to gently lick his knee.

Sansa was still on his opposite side, her arm layered over his where he’d grasped at his gut. She scattered kisses against his shoulder; firm presses he could feel even through his shirt. Each one drew the poison out of him until he was boneless in their bed.

Exhausted. Motionless. Safe where he laid.

“Sansa.” He said, not knowing what he was trying to say. Maybe it was an apology.

She shushed him. “Go back to sleep, you’ve had a long day.”

He knew sometime in the morning he’d regret this; regret the truth and showing how pathetic he was in a moment of doubt.

But tomorrow was so far away. When Sansa wrapped herself around him, he clung on to her.

/~/~/~/

Come morning he woke again, heart steady as he found a mountain of fur on either side of him. No Sansa but instead two dogs like furnaces who were getting fur into his mouth.

He spat it out.

“Hey kiddos.” He croaked, and two shaggy heads turned, Lady’s nearly upside down. Ghost immediately went licking at his face while Lady huffed and re-pinned his left arm with her chin.

“Hey, hey, c’mon.” But he couldn’t actually get an arm up to stop Ghost’s affectionate assault. “These are— _bleh—_ not the wakeup kisses I was expecting.”

There came a burst of laughter from the door. “What sort of kisses were you hoping for?”

For half a moment he didn’t remember anything, just smiled at Sansa looking so rosy with a towering plate of food in either hand. “Yours.” But then he remembered it all, and the smile dropped off his face.

Her brow furrowed. “Up!” She called, and the dogs huffed and groaned but rose, allowing Jon to finally get upright. She sashayed over. “Breakfast in bed.”

His tongue was a leaden weight. “Thanks.”

“Uh-huh.” But she sounded uncertain, even as she climbed under the blankets to sit alongside him and eat.

His eyes stung. It was probably over; he couldn’t imagine Sansa ever wanting to sleep with him again after that whole display. He’d known there'd been a time limit with her—he’d known it, but he hadn’t thought it’d be _this_ soon.

Not even a week with her, and he’d fucked it up.

The only sound for awhile was their cutlery against their plates. He had no idea how to break the silence, but Sansa did it for them: “So what are we doing today? Are we inside or out?”

“Uh.” He couldn’t remember, head too jumbled to know what his plans had once been. Flashes of light, breath rattling, that black night uncoiling wide in his skull—he had to figure out how to wall it up again. He’d been rubbed raw. Exposed.

He’d managed forgetting before, after the Night’s Watch. It seemed like Sansa was going to give him the mercy of ignoring it, so he just had to figure out how to shove it all back under. It was enough that he’d gotten off his chest for a few hours, he’d never expected more from her. Not really.

He’d already expected too much just opening his mouth.

He remembered telling Viz about it very dimly. He’d been delirious and drunk right out of his skull, and after that first time, they’d never spoken about it again. For the next eight months Viz had kept them on the road, never staying in one place for more than a week and always looking over their shoulders. They’d kept that up until Mormont had tracked him down; told him that shit wasn’t following him to the Vale, and wasn’t it about time he got off his ass and worked?

“Jon.”

He blinked hard. Shit. He hadn’t even answered her, just swanned right off in his head.

She was staring him straight in the face, eyes gouging. With a slow blink, she took a bite of her eggs and announced: “We’re staying inside.”

“What—why?”

“Because I said so.” And her gaze narrowed. “Was there anything that needed doing?”

“Right this second? No, but I should probably go and—”

“Inside.” She chirped. “It’s decided.”

“It’s not decided.”

“It’s.” She enunciated sharply. “ _Decided.”_ And then jammed her fork into the last bit of food and chewed it at him.

He wanted to see into her head and know what she was thinking. He wanted to crawl out of his skin and leave it bloody on the floor. Jon couldn’t do either, though, so he swallowed one forkful after the other like a machine until it was gone. He’d learned how to eat even with his stomach rebelling a long time ago.

Sansa’s gaze was practically burning now. She put her plate on the floor, then took his out of his nerveless hands. With a quick push both were put in front of the dogs to lick clean, and then Sansa was pressing into his side, taking one of his hands with both of hers and shoving their collective grip into her lap.

And then she just…stayed there. He swallowed. “What are you doing?”

“Cuddling you.” She said. “Can I sit in your lap?”

Huh. “Always.”

And so she did, snaking between his legs and then drawing his arms around her to arrange them just so. She went nuzzling him again and gods, he really did like that. Made him warm. At least he’d still get to have this, it seemed. That was something.

“I wish I could make it better.” She whispered, and it brought his attention square to the present. “I know it’s useless. I can make you as much food as possible and snuggle you to the ends of the earth, but it’s not…I know it’s not enough. I just wish…”

It felt like trembling, like a house being unmoored from its foundations. Or maybe some crooked thing finally being brought to the earth.

He pressed his mouth to her forehead, her cheekbone. “It’s okay, I don’t need anything.”

“But can I give you anything?” She asked. “Even if you just want to talk the rest of the time I’m here or do nothing—it’s all fine.”

“I know it wasn’t pleasant to hear, I really shouldn’t have unloaded—”

“No.” She snapped.

He was flummoxed. “No?”

“No and _shut up_. You listened to everything I said about the Lannisters even when we barely knew each other. I care about you, so of course I’m going to listen. I’m grateful you trusted me this much and you are _not_ burdening me with this. Not ever.”

His eyes were burning again. “Anyone ever tell you you’re too good to be true?”

Her nose brushed gently along his cheek. “No, and don’t you change the subject.”

“I don’t know what I want.” And he didn’t. He’d never really spoken about it—not to anyone but Viz. It just felt safer to barricade it inside. _Want_ didn’t factor into the equation, only survival.

“Cookies?” She asked. “Doggie cuddles? Board games? Lap dances?”

He spluttered. “What was the last one?”

Her lips curled. “You heard me.”

He bloody well couldn’t have. “That’s an option??”

She shrugged carelessly. “It can be; the mechanics aren’t that hard to figure out. Also, I’m not saying a massage with a happy ending is in your future—but _maybe.”_

He felt like someone had lit a firework right in his face. Ear ringing, spots dancing. “You still want to have sex?”

“Only if you do.” And her lashes fluttered. “Jon, there’s a never a time I don’t want your hands on me. But if I screwed things up—”

“You didn’t screw things up." And he was tumbling, falling headlong for her. Reality had never been this kind, but his hands were rising up her back. Her body was coming willingly to him.

Maybe he could trust.

She released his hands; interlaced her fingers behind his neck and through his hair. Her thumbs skimmed his jaw on both sides and sent his scalp rippling with pleasure. He groaned.

But there was still that worming fear inside. “Are you sure you want to with me, even after…” It hurt too much to finish.

But her thumbs kept skimming. “You got sent to Castle Black and you picked yourself up and made something of yourself. Horrible people tried to make you complicit in their crimes, and you said _no_. They tried to take everything from you, but you got right back up and kept living. You were willing to go to bat for me with those Troopers _after_ all that. Jon Snow, you are the strongest and bravest person I know. Every moment with you is a blessing.” And then she rocked forward, breath tangling with his.

But she came no further; she’d left that last inch for him.

It knocked the wind out of him. Lungs struggling, vision sparking. It was wrong; that couldn’t be the truth of him after all the things he’d done. The failures, the mistakes. Fucking over every faction that had once trusted him. He was an idiot. A backstabber. A man half-dead and shattered.

But she’d left him that inch, given him this chance. There was no taking her declaration to heart—but she seemingly had, and Sansa was a hell of a lot smarter than he was. For an hour, maybe he could believe it was true.

Believe in her. That was easier than anything else.

His mouth met hers like it’d ignite him, douse him, rip him _apart_. She clutched him close and kissed him right back, breathing and gasping and then sighing into his skin.

It felt like crying when he drew away, but his eyes were clear. “Sansa, thank you.” And then he leaned back in to steal the breath from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS for: panic attacks, PTSD, night terror of a stabbing/gutting, blood, mentions of the previous "romantic" relationship between Ygritte and Jon (though she is not named). Relationship was deceptive on Jon's end and coercive/eventually violent on Ygritte's--very similar to the books in setup. Mentions of a character (not Jon) being shot in the head. Police brutality, police/municipal corruption, backstabbing. Retaliatory attacks. Jon having a self-esteem downwards spiral this chapter. 
> 
> In other news. Sorry. :((((((
> 
> But I can at least say that we're on a largely upwards trajectory from here. Besides one other (not remotely as bad) thing happening--it's all uphill! I swear!!!
> 
> Now let's see, notes:
> 
> I imagined the Freefolk situation being similar to what's happened to a lot of indigenous populations in the real world. Land grabbed, made second class citizens, poor services and generational trauma unfolding from there. Though in this case, due to Freekfolk only being cultural and not ethnic, the Northern government used that as predication to give them jack shit. And then Jon, who was part of the Reserve that was trying to fight tooth and nail to stop any Freefolk hunting on it's/the freefolk's once ancestral lands--he ended right in the middle of that ugliness. Poor guy.
> 
> At least he has Sansa's kisses and lap dances in this troubling time??
> 
> As for Jon and Ygritte--it's like the books. But in our current timeline Jon does not remotely pine for Ygritte or consider her a lost love. Homegirl wasn't at all his type emotionally, and is now in prison for 30 years. He got over her in short order. But Jon does feel guilt for being their friend under false pretenses, him genuinely liking the freefolk, at times considering throwing/sabotaging the case/betraying the Watch for them, how with Ygritte anxiety and sex became inexplicably linked in his head, her violence towards him once she realized he was law enforcement, him turning against the Watch with his testimony, that testimony being unable to stop Yg/the other freefolk for being pinned for Orell's murder, then Jon himself nearly getting killed by a faction in the Watch over it--there's a lot of guilt there. It wasn't a clear cut situation, and Jon being Jon is carrying his shame/guilt to the ends of the earth.
> 
> Knowing this, I didn't want Sansa to say nice things and for Jon to suddenly believe in himself. Self-esteem doesn't work that way. However, after being in a state of unprocessed trauma for years (like...4-6?) there's suddenly the first crack of light come through. Jon doesn't think well of himself, but being willing to pretend for a while...that's the first step to finally taking his recovery into his own hands. Also, discussing it with Sansa? First time he's begun to process in a healthy manner. So: 10 for you, Jon Snow. 10 for you.
> 
> Anyhow, tune in next time for: doggos giving plenty of comfort, some news from the outside world reaching them, and Sansa using one of Jon's fantasies to show him how much she's still wildly attracted to him.


	15. Isothermal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was informed by some readers on the last chapter that the only reason they knew it updated was because of email notification. Apparently when I updated the story, it appeared way down the tag for whatever reason. Classic AO3. Anyhow, if y'all have no recollection of Jon sharing the rest of his really intense backstory (or reading a chapter in the first week of December), pop back a chapter.
> 
> For everybody else: dig in. :D

She stayed latched to Jon the rest of the day, to his side or hand, or even his lap when she could manage it. When she hadn’t been fighting Ghost or Lady for that treasured spot, of course. The dogs hadn’t left Jon’s side for hours, giving kisses to his palms, and then insisting his only happiness could be found in petting their fuzzy heads.

They seemed to ease him some.

She didn’t want to see that pain again, but she knew it was there. Knew it couldn’t be erased; raw and ragged and wholly torn out.

She’d thought she’d known betrayal before. Academic backstabbing in her Masters. Arya accusing her of breaking their mother’s figurines when they were kids. Baelish. Joffrey. Those had only been slights now, she realized. Only a single blow. Horrible in the moment, but over soon enough. She knew in a few weeks, a few months, she’d be over Joffrey. Over Baelish too and his poisonous choices.

Losing her life in King’s Landing would hurt, but it wasn’t _losing her life._

She kissed Jon’s jaw again, then rubbed her cheek against his beard. He made this happy little grumble and turned against her on the couch; kissed her square and then clutched her so close. Chest to chest. Body to body. So warm; the smell of him in her every breath. She couldn’t get enough of him.

She wanted to take him inside of her again.

But his sleep had been broken, and that nightmare had spilled out of him bloody. It’d been years since that horrible night, he’d told her, but the pain he carried still seemed fresh. Not yet, she told herself. Not _yet_.

Maybe it would always be this raw for him. That sort of betrayal, that sort of _cruelty—_

There was no telling, just kissing him on and on and on in hopes it would ease the blows.

His stomach rumbled loudly. He broke away with a wince. “Damn it.”

She smoothed a palm where his neck curved into his shoulder. Hummed. “I’ll make us lunch.”

“You already made us breakfast.”

She kissed him sweetly; two and three times and maybe even a fourth. Pulled away. Jon gave her a dopey grin, and her lips twitched in return. “Let me take care of you today.”

“You don’t have to—”

Another kiss. Another shared breath. “Let me.”

And there was something in him then, something she’d never seen. Vulnerable and so cracked open it was difficult to stare at head on. He cleared his throat wetly and darted his gaze to hers. Slanted away. “Okay.”

She hoped it would be. Sansa squeezed him and rose, letting him pull the blankets away so she could escape their cocoon. The dogs immediately fought to replace her. And in this, it seemed, Ghost fought viciously—because he gave Lady one hard thwack before wiggling in.

Lady looked completely scandalized.

“Come here.” She called, and Lady obediently if a bit petulantly followed her to the kitchen. Sansa took that fluffy face into her hands and stroked it. “Ghost just needs to be with Daddy right now, okay? But you’ll get your turn. And when you do, my little pumpkin, you can show Daddy _sleepy couch time_. I bet you can, right?”

Lady’s ears swiveled eagerly. Mission accepted.

“Yes you can, my good girl. My best girl.” Another hard series of pets followed; the way Lady liked them to get deep into her fur. It occurred to Sansa then, quietly but gradually dawning, that she had to leave KL. And if she had to leave KL, she might as well leave the Crownlands all together.

And if she left the Crownlands, she and Lady could be together. The stopgap with Arya would only be that.

“My perfect, brave girl. I love you so much. I love you; I won’t ever leave you.”

Lady jerked her head up trying to get enough space to lick Sansa’s hands. This time, Sansa didn’t even complain about doggy slobber.

A shade more cheerful, she put food in the dog-dishes and went to make lunch for the human part of the household. Ghost arrived ten minutes later to get his fill. Lady launched herself past him.

It wasn’t a moment later she heard Jon yelping: “Sansa! Your dog is trying to smother me!”

“You’re welcome!” She hollered back, and when she came into the front room five minutes later with their food, it was to Ghost pouting, Jon amusedly petting each dog, and Lady gleefully plastering the poor man flat to the couch with both paws on his chest.

/~/~/~/

Jon talked about the Night’s Watch some, and she heard names that had never been spoken before. Grenn and Pyp. Edd. A boy named Sam who it sounded like he’d cared for deeply. These weren’t bad stories now, but good ones. Pranks and short-sheeted beds; disasters on the hiking trails and lost campers. That time a flaming marshmallow had been accidentally flung into somebody’s sleeping bag.

She wondered but didn’t ask when the last time was he’d shared these tales. If he ever had.

It wasn’t her place to pry.

When the conversation lulled, she asked what all those names were doing with themselves these days. If Jon has truly recognized what she was snooping for—whether those men had stayed with the Watch after what had been done to him—he didn’t let on.

He just rambled.

Pyp hadn’t made it out of the traineeship, Jon said, and had gone to work for one of his sisters while running the local community theater in his off time. Grenn, who Jon amusedly named turncloak, had been a Ranger but later took a surveying job at a logging company. Edd now worked down in a Reserve at the Neck. He and Jon still talked sometimes; shared war stories at the same conservation conference they attended each summer.

It had been rather obliquely implied that both those job changes had come shortly after Jon left the Watch, and it eased her.

He volunteered Satin’s location entirely on his own. About the man’s successful bar and restaurant he owned down in Lemonwood. That his friend had vowed never to see a flake of snow in this life again, so he and Jon usually only spoke by email.

Sam’s disposition was less clear. Jon said he’d been like Satin; never interested in being a Ranger and leaving Castle Black the second he turned eighteen. He’d gone to Oldtown and been admitted to the Citadel on a full ride. Sansa had voiced her admiration for this; it was one of the most academically stringent programs in the Kingdoms. To be able to get into it after the non-education provided at Castle Back was _astonishing_. At her voicing this, Jon had looked incredibly proud. He’d offered a little more then; saying Sam had taken his girlfriend from North to Oldtown with him, and Jon thought they had two kids now. He also thought Sam might be teaching at the Citadel, but didn’t sound wholly sure.

She didn’t press.

He talked and talked until his lids dipped heavy. Until he was yawning. Until he asked after her.

She told him of Beth Cassel who grew up with her; so sweet and lovely and Sansa’s best friend despite being a few years younger. The woman worked as a nutritionist down in Cerwyn these days, and was always emailing Sansa about antioxidants and quinoa and to stop drinking so much bloody coffee.

Jon has snorted at that. “No such thing.”

“Right?”

There’d been Alla Tyrell, the art history major who’d shared Sansa’s love of the great romances. They’d exchanged notes and studied together in their overlapping classes. A good friendship, but one that hadn’t survived graduation. She expected there might be mutual wedding invitations one day, but beyond that…

A white wedding, she thought, with a handsome and dark-haired groom at the altar. She didn’t tell Jon that part though, presumptuous dream that it was.

There’d been Daena Velaryon, but that was a less happy story. Friends in undergrad and then bitter enemies in their Masters. There’d been accusations of plagiarism, vicious class debates, and once even a stolen almost-boyfriend between them. And all over a blistering paper she’d written on the incompetence of the Three Headed Dragon’s regime. Excuse _her_ if she hardly cared that the Velaryon’s had some distant Targaryen ancestry up the line.

She’d even told of Jon of Edric Storm, because of everything that boy had been for her, he’d been her friend first. And that _mattered_. They’d broken up because he’d taken his business degree and gone back to his family’s company in the Stormlands. That they hadn’t tried harder for each other had told her volumes.

Relationships weren’t just meant to be—they were fought for.

Though talking about exes with the man she was currently…whatever with. Well; she wondered if she’d blurted too much. But after finishing her tales about Edric, Jon had only look confused. “And he just left?”

“Yeah.” She’d shrugged. “He had a job lined up.”

“Huh.”

And that had been that, because now even she was yawning. They brushed their teeth, let the dogs out, then curled into bed with loyal hounds on either side.

He stared at her then. Hovered over; his face dark in the halo of the fire. He rubbed a thumb at her temple, her jaw, then kissed her softly before slipping down.

Sansa ran her fingers through his hair until they both fell asleep.

/~/~/~/

Jon didn’t know how he’d ended up here. Well, he _did_. Theoretically. Taking a job in the Vale, fishing Sansa out of a ravine. A lot of nights spent together. All of today—still feeling too raw and conjuring up work that needed doing. Running all the snowmobile and truck engines to keep them in working order. Cutting up a few more downed trees. Checking on the rejiggered solar array out back.

Ghost had followed him so closely the dog kept stepping on Jon’s heels.

“Buddy, c’mon, I’m working here.”

Ghost had whimpered, ears drooping instantly.

“Ahhhfuck. I’m sorry. I know you’re just worried. I know I…it’s been a hard few days. But it’s…” And for the first time, it nearly felt like: “It’s gonna be okay.”

Ghost accepted pats in repayment, then barked happily before spending the rest of the day bringing him pinecones. Jon had thanked the dog for each one—they were great fire starters, after all.

So yeah, he knew what had led him here. He’d gone inside, Sansa already having food _and_ cookies ready, and not willing to hear anything but his stories or praises to her cooking. He’d done just that. Ate his fill, told some tales, then sat there as Sansa clucked that his shoulders were so _tense,_ and there was nothing she could do but lead him to the bedroom to fix it.

Jon had not a complaint.

She’d worked his shoulders through his shirt, his bare arms, and then his hands. Had he been hot and bothered by her doing this? Undoubtedly. Had he made a noise or two? That was open to debate. But after one of those maybe-groans, she’d leaned over his back, rubbed at one of his pectorals and asked: “Baby?”

He was going to slip into a puddle of satisfaction if she ever stopped propping him up. “Hmmmmmm?”

“You know that thing I said the other night?”

He had all of three braincells left, and two of them weren’t doing their job. “What thing?”

She kissed his neck and then sucked hard _._ “You know, about endings. _Happy_ ones.”

“Oh. _Oh.”_ And his eyes flew open. They hadn’t had sex since that failed attempt when he’d…since that night. She’d said she wanted to sleep with him still, but this was the first time she'd initiated since it happened. He’d honestly been too scared to try himself.

He was warm all over and for the first time, there was no worry inside him. Only gnawing hunger. “I remember that. Are you saying you want to…?”

“I’m asking if _you_ want to.” And she punctuated that with a kiss. “Otherwise I’ll just get started on your back, alright?”

He could say yes, and it’d be good. He could say no, and it would be okay.

That was the thing. Whatever he did with Sansa, it would be _okay._

He deliberately swallowed some spit so his vocal chords would be properly lubricated enough not to squeak. Answered: “I’m game.”

There came a single kiss to his jaw, two behind his ear, and then one so long and languorous when she pulled his head aside. He let her in and then sank towards her. Their rhythm sent his scalp tingling. It had his cock _aching._

“Pull your pants down.” She murmured, and he was only too happy to comply. After all these fantasies each time she’d offered a massage, he was finally getting the filthy version. And gods _damn_ _him_ did he want it.

He’d been sitting cross legged; her slotted behind him and up on her knees. He uncrossed his legs just enough to ruck his sweatpants down. His cock came free, already half-hard. She sank to the mattress; thighs on her ankles and legs bracketing his hips from behind.

She put her mouth on his again, so clever and tart, and then one hand started stroking down his side. Slow slow _slow_. She reached around with teasing fingers to grasp his length. He felt the white-out building this time instead of being overtaken. Back of the skull; hot and heaving.

And this one would spill slow.

Her soft little palm gripped the head. She drew his precum with her fingers and _dragged_ it.

He gasped into her mouth.

“That’s it.” She said. “Let me have you.”

His hips rocked up slowly and she kept pumping; kept the rhythm that he’d set. Her hand gave a glorious twist, and he grunted: _“Gods.”_

One of her arms was looped around him, over his collarbones as she gripped him to her chest. Her other arm was down his front and working his cock to keep him aflame. It was her embrace that held him, kept him.

There was nowhere else he’d ever want to be.

The slide was getting rougher until the precum wasn’t enough. He’d just been biting down to ask when her hand drew away. He heard a clatter of plastic, then realized in a dim, awed sort of way, that she’d planned for this. Her palm came back sheened in lotion and then was gliding on him again.

Pumping, gods, pumping him harder, followed by that same devastating twist. Sansa and her body. Her warmth bleeding in. He wished he’d asked her to take off her shirt before starting this.

He wished he could take off his own.

The edge was coming. He needed to warn her. “Sansa.”

His skull was pounding. His cock was in an ecstatic heaven. His vision was whiter, brighter, that overheat licking out—

“Come for me.” She breathed sharply. “I’m so wet for you right now, and I want you to _come_.”

No force in the heavens could have stopped him. The orgasm was an eruption—striking him blind and deaf and wholly _dumb._ Heat-light burned and flooded down to meet the torrent rising from his navel.

The collision floored him, but there were Sansa’s arms. They’d never left him—just cradled him backwards until he was laying against her chest. It was his turn to be half in her lap and not willing to leave. No wonder Lady fought Ghost for this so much; it was a damn cozy spot.

He blinked away the sparks and found himself staring at the side of a very lovely chin. “Hi.”

He heard her gentle little hum. “There you are.” And then she kissed the side of his head. “Did you like that?” There was a little warble there, a worry.

He couldn’t imagine why. “I may never be able to walk again. You’ll have to feed me where I’ve fallen.”

He caught her mouth curling. “My poor Ranger, should I do it by hand?”

“I’m going to insist.” He agreed, and then another aftershock passed through him. Dear _gods._ How had anyone ever broken up with this woman? Were they stupid? Blind? Hated earthshaking orgasms?

“Sansa?”

“Yes?”

“Were you telling me the truth at the end?”

In answer, her hand skimmed into her sweatpants. It came back shining to the light. The smell of her hit him instantly, and he caught her by the wrist and licked every finger clean.

She shivered. Gasped. And he decided: “When I can walk again, you’re gonna go sit on the kitchen counter, and then I’m gonna have dessert. Understand?”

And gods, did Sansa squirm _beautifully._ “I understand. Whatever you say.”

He just kissed her fingertips and wondered: _how?_

/~/~/~/

Whatever questions he had though, they were quiet for a time.

Especially with Sansa’s shouts and her thighs around his ears.

/~/~/~/

“You know what you said about feeding you where you lay?”

“Yeah?” He asked.

Her arm was flung over her eyes. “I think this counter is my home now. So sorry. All the cooking’s up to you now.”

He grinned. “S’okay.” And kissed her. He was delighted when she let him—let her arm fall away to lick her own taste right of his mouth. It yanked a moan out of him; he wasn’t going to lie about that. Gods. During it all, he thought her ankles might have kicked some bruises into his back. And he’d _loved_ it. Her so giggly and willing. The _noises_ she’d made. How hot and open she’d been for his tongue—

Her smell now; how damp his face still was. Today was one of the most erotic things to ever happen to him, and that damn well included the hand-job she’d given him that still had him tingling. He was hard again and mentally counting condoms; wanting to take a tumble and hoping she’d be willing. She was already wet. Ready; wrapped around him so nicely.

Her heat was burning through his shirt, and he _hated_ that he couldn’t have her closer. Hated that when he’d been on his knees, he hadn’t been able to feel her bare calves flexing against shoulder blades. Because he couldn’t. He wanted to, but he _couldn’t._

His eyes stung.

And Sansa always knew. “Jon.” She shifted just a little; mouth pulled from his mouth and against his cheek instead. A few quick presses; a nuzzle of her nose. “What is it?”

Every year of his upbringing—the unspoken words in Rhaella’s houses, the bursts of shouting and long silences both he and Viserys couldn’t help, every single thing he’d been told about being a _man_ at Castle Black—they all told him not to say a word.

But with Sansa everything was okay, so he mumbled: “I wish I could take my shirt off. I wanna be closer with you.”

A soft hand rubbed at his back. “It’s okay.”

“It’s—” He snorted a harsh breath out his nose. “I thought I’d have this shit figured by now.”

“Everything has its own pace. But if you wanted…” And she trailed off.

It brought him alert. “What?”

“I don’t want you thinking it’s something you need to fix for me. That you need _fixing._ I just…I had a thought if you wanted to try something.”

He wasn’t going to let himself hope; couldn’t even imagine what she was going to say. “Hey, tell me. No such thing as a bad idea.”

“You once warned me not to eat things off the floor.”

The quota of dumb shit at CB _had_ been pretty high. “Okay, nothing bad with _trying._ C’mon Stark, lay it on me.”

She shifted in his arms. Didn’t leave them, just leaned back enough so she could examine his face. Her tongue darted pink. “So…I noticed the infirmary had about a million ACE wraps. I don’t know the exact dimensions of what you have going on, but you could always just…wrap up before we have sex. Then you can decide whether you want to take your shirt off, and either way you’ll be ready, and I still won’t be able to see or touch anything that you don’t want.” She shrugged. “Mind you, it’s just an idea.”

And Jon felt like he’d been hit in the head with a brick.

The silence stretched. Her fingertips slipped against his spine. “…Jon?”

“I knew you were smarter than me.” He replied dazedly. “I just didn’t realize by how much.”

“Don’t you say that! You’re _really smart_. I wouldn’t have been able to fix that solar array, or do maintenance on the generators, or figure out how to—”

But he silenced her with a kiss. After a moment where he wondered if she’d rip away to chastise him a little harder, she melted into him. That was alright; he would have liked it either way. He kissed her and kissed her and nearly bent her backwards over the counter.

It was him that broke away. She blinked a few times; looked dizzy as he felt.

“I can try that.” He promised. He’d have to look at himself a bit harder than he had in a while, but he could. For her and him and this thing that he wanted between them—he _could._

“Okay.” She answered hazily. “But only if—”

“I want to.” And then he was kissing her again. “Soon.”

/~/~/~/

It was another day; another morning climb up the mountain to make Jon’s check-in. They’d been clearing the path slowly every time they went up. Soon enough, Sansa would be happy to report, the ride would only be twenty minutes instead of an hour.

Jon had been proud too; had pressed a kiss to the hat over her hair. But that made her think of his mouth, and _that_ made her think of what he’d done to her in the kitchen. Lapping and sucking, and eating her out like it was his gods given right—

His curls between her thighs. Those dark eyes searing up at her. The sight of his tongue rising up her slit so obscenely—

It had her rubbing her thighs together even now. She liked Jon for Jon; loved their conversations and their games, and just sitting together in front of the fire. But gods, did it feel like all her mental energy was devoted to getting him to have sex with her these days.

She’d had good sex before, so she could say with all-confidence that this was something else. Sensual, bone-deep, absolutely _momentous._ Every time she’d thought they’d settle into something; that the desperation and hyper-saturation of every touch would finally wear off…

It never did.

She didn’t know what to do with herself beyond trying to have him again and again. Try to figure this out through sheer repetition. Not that there was much _trying_ involved _._ That implied effort. Most days, she only had to raise her eyebrows before Jon was rolling on top of her.

Still though. Still—

“What are you talking about?” Jon barked into the phone, and it brought her attention squarely to the glade.

To the smile on his face fading like the morning fog.

His brows drew together. “But the Feds don’t ever…?” Another silence. Head tilted. Listening to words from on high. “Uh-huh. You’re sure of the date?”

More quiet. Her stomach knotting; wanting to climb off the snowmobile and smooth those furrows away.

“I can do that. Down to the crossroads at least, rest is on you guys—it’s too dangerous to take the truck any further.” He nodded to no one. “Yeah. It’s…I suppose it’s about time, isn’t it? Keep me posted.” And he killed the line before letting the phone drop to his side.

She got off the snowmobile. “Jon?”

He tried to smile. “Good news.” But it cracked his face in two. “Feds got some business up here they’re not telling us about, above the pay grade, but they’re plowing up our mountain. Five days, and then you can go home.”

She didn’t understand it. After so many setbacks, there was suddenly a timetable? An escape hatch?

But she didn’t understand him either, because while there was an apartment, there was no home to go back to. “…oh.”

“Yeah.” Another crumbling smile. “I know you’ve been stressing about a new job, so…it’s good. I can get you down partway in the truck. Then they’ll take you girls one way and send me and Ghost another. The cabin’s busted—no use being up here in a deathtrap. They’ll have me on other assignments the rest of the winter.”

“That’s…” She didn’t know what it was. “I’m glad. I know you’ve been chafing up here.”

“Sansa—”

“Your job’s important, Jon. You love it. The Vale sounds like it’s in a lot of trouble right now that you can help with. We knew that…” When it was cold out, so cold that the sky was blown clear to the horizon—every tear fell like a line of fire. “This couldn’t last forever.”

He waded through the snow. Took her by the elbow and yanked her to him. Crushed her.

She sagged into his arms.

“ _Shit.”_ He muttered, and she couldn’t disagree. He rumbled: “I’m gonna fuckin’ miss you. Wish I could have kept you the whole winter, but I know you gotta…”

“Yeah.” She whispered. “A whole life to clean up. I wish this was longer, being here with you—” Something else was building, but it was too painful to voice. Too painful to _want._ Her future was in no shape for anything; to ask for promises or look for more.

His career was important.

But so was hers.

She breathed the pain through. “Being here with you was better than anything. Thank you.”

“None of that.” He muttered, and then his cheek was sliding against hers. Locked together. Five days yet, but she already feared his arms loosening even an inch.

 _Stay_. Her mind spun. _Stay stay stay._

But she couldn’t. The calendar turned. The gods looked away.

And no matter her wishes, they both had to go on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/
> 
> Readers: ψ`ー´)ﾉ ψ`ー´)ﾉ ψ`ー´)ﾉ
> 
> ...the plot had to go on sometime. Sorry! 
> 
> At beginning of this I guessed 12-15 chapters in story length, which we've clearly overshot. So depending on how much I sprawl, I think the end count of this will either be 19 or 20 chapters total. We've got some more to go yet!
> 
> Meanwhile, minor notes:
> 
> Daena Velaryon is very, very loosely based of Daena "The Defiant" Targaryen. But since I had historical Targ line very much dead in this verse, Daena is just a Velaryon who is Sansa's Targ-loving academic rival from college. Lol.
> 
> Also. Dogs solve everything. You heard it here first. Though I also imagine with Jon being so upset these past few days--
> 
> Ghost: Somebody???? Has made father hurt??? Ghost's own perfect father who gives pets??  
> Lady: OUTRAGEOUS. UNFAIR.  
> Ghost: What do???  
> Lady: WE BITE.  
> Ghost: That's allowed??  
> Lady: ...if you do it quick enough.
> 
> Lol! Anyhow, tune in next time for: Sansa's ACE bandage plan being put to use, and the last hurrah at our wintery cabin of romantic (and lascivious) wonders.


	16. Leeward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super long chapter because I love y'all (and there was no reasonable place to split it, lol).
> 
> I swear this isn't a huge part of the chapter, but WARNINGS for: the continuing implications of Jon's PTSD, panic attacks, Jon finally taking a direct gander at his scars and having some very brief flashbacks to his assault, and some not hugely specific but still there descriptions of Jon's scars. Kinda.
> 
> If this is a bit much for you, when you get to the section where ACE bandages get mentioned, just skip on to the next section break.
> 
> Meanwhile, another lovely perfect cozy and _sensual_ moodboard for this story, from the lovely [asongofsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asongofsnow/pseuds/asongofsnow). Go see it on her tumblr too!!!

The night of the call, he sank into her. Wordless. Weighted. Dragging in and out of her so slowly, she could only gasp and claw at the sheets.

He’d rolled her onto her stomach at one point; bore her down with all his body and made her forget there’d ever been anything else. Only this. Glorying in every breath. The way she panted his name. His teeth at the back of her neck. The salt he left on her skin.

He drove _deep._ At one exceptionally punishing thrust, she clawed out again.

This time, his palm pushed to the back of her hand—curled his fingers down through hers. She clutched on.

“Jon—”

“I got you.” Another roll of his hips. Another sigh of her name. “I _got_ you.”

And for a while, she didn’t think of the future.

She just held on.

/~/~/~/

They started packing early. Not for her, but for him.

“All of it?” She asked dumbly.

He nodded grimly. “All of it.” And his entire body heaved a sigh. “There’s still logistical problems all over the Vale. Whatever I can take with me to supply another base will help keep it running. You got it up here? I need to siphon the diesel and start inventorying parts to bring with.”

Sansa just looked around the kitchen and then at the bins they’d gathered. “I got it.”

He got a hand around the side of her neck; pulled her in to press a kiss against her temple. “Thanks honey.”

She didn’t want these last days to be sad. For either of them to _leave_ before they went.

So she asked coyly: “How much thanks?”

And his mouth split into a grin. “Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen.”

“And what if _I_ want to make it happen?”

He pulled back, let his eyes skim her head to soles. Gaze dark. Mouth _vulgar._ “Then I’d be asking if you take requests.”

Her hand caught his side and clung there. “I remember you saying something about me telling you what to do, Ranger Snow.” And a bit about those lace gloves of hers, too. She hadn’t told Jon, but she always kept an extra set in her purse. One had never known at Mockingbird when something delightful was about to appear. That had been one of the happy things of working there. For every hour devoted to her own catalogue, there’d been at least ten minutes spent creeping to other departments hoping for a glimpse of their treasures.

So of _course_ she kept an extra set around. This adventure would likely ruin the pair, but gods above did she have plans for them.

His hands flexed. “Sansa, I know you sorta had a…roadmap for me, when you wanted to play something out.”

She ran a thumb at his hip. “Yes? I know that I’m terribly particular about these things—”

“Which is great.” He interrupted, then swooped a kiss on her when she started pouting. It rather sidetracked her until he broke away. “I’m just saying…I’m not much like that? I can give you the really broad strokes, but I honestly want the rest to be a surprise. Is that alright?”

“More than.” She was a very goal-oriented sort of girl. “As you’ve probably figured out, I don’t need much help when it comes to planning something to the hilt.”

“It’s one of your winning traits.” He agreed cheerfully, and then smacked a kiss on her cheek.

She preened, but then realized: “Any big no’s?”

And his brow furrowed. “Uh…anything we’ve done before is fine, except…I don’t want any hitting during this? Just you telling me to do things for you, mostly. Make me work for it.”

“No hitting.” She agreed immediately. “And the rest of that sounds _delightful_.”

His pupils had already blown black. “Uh-huh.” And when his tongue darted out, it made her ache _._ He cleared his throat rather self-consciously. “I just…want you to be nice to me during it. Sweet.”

The direction of the whole thing became rather clear. “I’ll take care of you.” She agreed firmly, then wrapped her arms around his back. Smiled up at him. Bit her lip. “I’ll be very, _very_ sweet.”

He groaned. “I was supposed to get things done today. Fuckin’ A.”

“So sorry.” She’d never been less so.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You’re a very clever man.”

He huffed at that but seemed amused. This time he kissed her square on the mouth, which meant she must have done well. Pleased him—her favorite thing in the world.

“We better get on.” He grumbled, and never had those words sounded so forlorn.

“Of course.” But his hands lingered. So did hers. She didn’t want to let him go. Four days left, and there would only be fewer. Soon enough, there’d be none at all.

But there was nothing to be done for that, so when he let her go, she kissed him softly and went.

/~/~/~/

She only got three bins filled with food before she looked up and saw Ghost with a box of crackers firmly clamped in his jaws. She gasped. “That’s not for you!”

His tail waggled.

“Don’t you waggle at me! Put that down!”

He took one step back.

“Don’t you dare.”

He took another.

“ _Don’t.”_

Ghost bolted.

Sansa shrieked and gave chase. Ghost, head flung high, sprinted like his life depended on it. She almost caught him at the couch until Lady leapt in and nearly plowed her off her feet. Sansa clutched to the back of the furniture. “Never, in the history of turncloaks, has the Vale seen such a traitor!”

Lady just bopped her with a snout then went tearing after Ghost. Sansa followed and caught up to him turning out of a dead-end room. She got ahold of his backside. Ghost dropped the box with a bark, only for Lady to swoop it up. The chase reversed direction.

“Sansa!” Jon called from the cellar. “I hear a lot of running—is everything okay?”

“YES!”

“That didn’t sound like a good yes!”

It wasn’t—they’d torn open the box. Both dogs had a sleeve of crackers now and seemed wholly convinced that it was playtime.

“Everything is fine!”

“If you need help—”

“I don’t!”

/~/~/~/

Jon came up later to half the bins packed, and Sansa laying despondently on the floor. There were crumbs in her hair while the dogs were licking the ground around her.

“…I may have needed help.”

Jon put his fist against his mouth. Bit down on it. He wouldn’t laugh. He _wouldn’t_. “…you okay?”

Her head rolled towards him. “If Ghost vomits up plastic later, it is _entirely_ his fault. I want this written down for the record.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” And wasn’t that the tragic truth? He eyed her. “You want some help up?”

Without a single pause, she made grabby hands up at him.

And Jon couldn’t help it—he _laughed._

/~/~/~/

He had her bundled into his side on the couch; it was a place shaped only for her. He wanted to tell her.

But he couldn’t say it. She didn’t know where she was going from here, and frankly, he didn’t know where he was going either. With the bridge out and so much equipment destroyed, the cabin was no longer ideally placed or even useful. The VFS might write the whole thing off as a loss. For all he knew, by this time next year, he’d be assigned to the other end of the Vale. The entire winter would likely be an upheaval, and the last thing Sansa needed was another man pressuring her. A man thinking he could demand anything of her when he couldn’t make promises himself.

She’d offered him more than he’d ever been given. He didn’t want to be selfish, but he wanted…

“You could have asked for help.”

She sighed into his chest. “I know, I just…I guess it’s habit. At home when we did family chores, everyone always acted like it was some big surprise when I was able to get anything done by myself.” Her voice pitched hideously. “ _Didn’t know you had it in you, Sansy.”_ And then winced.

“You’re capable.” He answered simply. “But sometimes it’s a two-person job; no shame in that. I wanna help because you’re Sansa, and I give a fuck about you. That’s all.”

“I know.” She answered softly. “I know. Next time when it takes two, I’ll ask. We’ll do it together.”

“And stop Ghost from eating plastic.”

She snorted. “And stop Ghost from eating plastic.”

There was another silence then, longer but more than comforting. His arm around her and rubbing at her shoulder. Her face pressed so resolutely into his chest. The fire flickering on.

Everything he needed.

Memories gathered. “Sometimes family doesn’t see us like we really are. They get these ideas in their heads that are hard to let go. It has nothing to do with us.”

The glow of the hearth made her eyes glassy. “…maybe.”

“My grandma…she was surprised when I got arrested. She didn’t understand. _Jon’s a good boy, he doesn’t fight._ I hadn’t lived with her since I was eight—how would she know? Viz and I were angry teenagers; lots of scraps and bloody lips. Us against the world. She never saw that, even though…a lot of that shit should’a been familiar.”

Her fingers found his collarbone; skimmed along it before resting on his heart.

She was such a gentle thing. “We just want to be seen, that’s all.”

“Yeah.” He answered. “But sometimes you don’t get that, and it’s not on you. It’s their problem. They can see you as you are, or they can fuck right off.”

A snort answered that. Maybe he’d cheered her some like she’d cheered him. His sleep was restless still, broken in the night by flickers. Floods. Black and red and all jumbled together. He’d dreamed once of those monstrous shadows circling the couloir. A shattered car. Bloody flares in their fists. He hadn’t wanted to go, but Sansa had been down there. Sansa had been _down_ _there,_ and—

He’d woken to her quiet shushes. Her gentle mouth. Her heart always, always, so steady for him.

And Jon didn’t know anymore how he was supposed to go on without her.

/~/~/~/

Three days left, and he could see now how much they were trying to cheer each other up. How much they both needed cheering. He wasn’t sure if it made things easier, knowing she was struggling with the separation as much as he was. But as selfish as it was of him, it was a comfort—it meant he mattered.

Even when she moved on one day, Jon Snow had been _something_ to Sansa Stark. They’d lived a nightmare and a daydream together. Been together. Laid together. Maybe she’d hold him as tightly in her memory as he would keep her in his.

It was one last thing to feed his gnawing heart before the starvation, before he had to watch her go back to King’s Landing with a new pit of dread in his gut.

And so they both tried, and _gods_ did she cheer him.

“Jon.”

“What?”

And she was pink as a rose. “Are you busy with anything later? Say at six?” And gave him a _look._

That was a look the gods had blessed upon him—one that made it clear the heavens’ gates (and Sansa’s legs) would soon be opening for him. “Calendar’s clear, honeybee.”

Her lips were pink too, but he knew later he’d have her biting them red. She swept her hair aside. “Good. Come as ready as you want to be, and we’ll do that thing we talked about, hmmmmm?”

His cock nearly leapt to attention. “Uh-huh.”

And her eyes were alight. _“Good boy.”_

/~/~/~/

 _Come as ready as you want to be_.

It was 5PM with only another hour to go. He eyed the ACE bandages and then his shirt. He wanted to—he really, _really_ wanted. Feel her against his chest, those hot palms against his back. Her mouth all over him like the sweetest mercy he’d ever been bestowed.

His stomach was half in a knot. He’d never expected this to be easy, but for the first time, he felt like he needed to push. Like he _could_ push. After years of letting it ride, that was a hell of a shift.

_Nothing comes without a cost, Snow._

“Well fuck.” He muttered. He thought of Sansa and these three days left. He could stop now and never try, and it would be okay with her.

But he’d always remember these hours, remember what his fear had wasted.

His hand fisted in the cotton behind his neck and pulled up; shoulders rolling until his shirt came off.

His gaze cut down once and nausea punched through. His eyes stung as he stared determinedly at the ceiling. Keep it down. Keep it _down._

Still ugly and undulating. Purple and puckered. Red and rigid. Slashed across his abdomen one after the other after the _other_. He didn’t want to remember the knives. The slide. The hook on that one blade as it’d yanked backwards _—_

The burning fog rolled over. Choked him.

He near had to unweld his teeth to breathe again. For a while he did just that: breathe. Let clean oxygen pass through him and scour back the bloody haze. He looked down again.

Still there. The pain, too.

His gaze jerked up once more, but the fog didn’t come. He flexed his hands and jaw and waited awhile longer. The acidic bubbling in his throat receded.

Another look, and this time he found it in him to grab a bandage.

“Okay.” He snorted a harsh breath. “Okay. C’mon, you can do this.” He’d been living through the flashbacks already after unearthing things. The fuckers were gonna be dancing through his head anyways, so he might as well get some fucking use out of them.

He hadn’t quite imagined it’d be spite to fuel him, but fuel him it did. After the first layer was down things got easier, and he could actually look at what he was doing. And surprisingly, it didn’t even feel like anything when he noticed the bandages had rode up a bit to expose one downwards curl of a scar above his pelvis. He just breathed deeply, shifted the wraps a bit, and then it was done.

Just like that.

“Wasn’t so bad.” He told himself, even though it had been. But maybe he could fool himself and the next time would come easier.

He was sick of being ruled by this and letting it get in the way of what he wanted. And he wanted Sansa; her skin and her warmth and those gentle little hands. All he had to do now was figure out if he should put his shirt back on before going to find her.

His head said no. His heart said yes.

He pulled it on.

“Baby steps.” He mumbled to himself. And maybe he’d be so horny later, the shirt would fly right off.

No reason not to hope.

/~/~/~/

His palms were sweating. His heart felt like it was beating double. 6pm on the dot she’d said, and he still had five minutes to go. If she’d meant to rev him up before this even started, she’d succeeded admirably _._

What was she getting ready? Would she expect him to undress her, or was she already naked on the other side of the door? His mind kept conjuring fantasies. Whatever it was, he’d love it. Sansa always lit a fire in him. _Moved_ him.

He checked his watch. Two minutes.

There was a mournful bark from upstairs. Jon ignored it. He knew those two were trying to trick him into feeling pity for the whole hour they might have to lay up there in their own rooms on their own beds. He knew Sansa always tucked them in and fussed before leaving. The only thing those dogs were in danger of was falling asleep.

But that got him thinking of Sansa fussing over him, and that derailed his brain again. He was half-hard now and palming his cock through his sweatpants. Not looking for release, just pressure. Let the boil of anticipation keep rising.

That was the best part.

“Jon?”

His heart leapt. “Yeah?”

“Come in.”

He would play it cool; not jump on her the second the door opened. He turned the handle. Pushed.

And his jaw dropped.

The fireplace had been worked to an inferno, painting the room in gold and bronze. And there she was: peachy lace bra, a scrap of lilac silk in the vee of her thighs, dark thermal socks that went over her knees—

And a little pair of white gloves; lace at the wrists.

Jon whimpered like a _dog._

Her eyebrows went up, and she gave him the sauciest smirk that had ever been known to gods or men. He was going to come in his pants. She was going to say one word, and he was absolutely going to _come._

He wasn’t even sorry.

“Sansa.” Her name was all his addled brain could latch on to.

“Jon.” She answered, amused. He was alright with that; it was just getting him harder. She crooked a finger. “Come here.”

And he bloody well _went._

She tapped her bottom lip with a gloved finger. “Give us a kiss.”

He knew he made some stupid noise at that, but when her finger drifted down he nearly lunged at her. He gave her a kiss, another, and then another after that until her head was rocking back. Her mouth slid open, and he sank his tongue in.

Abruptly, she pulled back and tutted: “Enough of that. If you want more, Jon, you’ll have to work for it.”

“Uh-huh.” He croaked, and wondered giddily: how much more?

She cupped his jaw and rubbed gently. Considered him. “I want you to kiss me somewhere else, will you do that for me?”

The brush of that cloth on his skin set him aflame. “I’ll kiss you anywhere.”

She gave him a soft little pat and then pulled her hand away. “I know you will, that’s why I adore you.”

He hadn’t expected that part, and he could feel his cheeks growing hot even as it made him shiver. Her lips curled up softly but her eyes were dancing. She traced a finger down her throat. “Here.”

He followed her command willingly; behind her ear and then down the column of her neck. Her skin was so soft. So _warm._ He scraped against it with his teeth.

“Ah!” She chastised. “Did I say teeth, Jon?”

He was grinning. “No.”

“Then behave, or I won’t let you kiss me elsewhere.”

“That’d be a shame.”

“This sounds like a distinct lack of remorse.”

It was. “I’m sorry.” He kissed her neck. “So sorry, honey. I’ll listen.”

“You better.” She murmured, and then her hand traced down her chest. “Here.” And he sank downwards.

He layered kisses on her like he’d paint her with his mouth; like he’d make sure every swathe of her was layered in his affections. She let out a quiet sigh and cupped a breast. “Darling.”

He followed immediately and sucked on a nipple through that lace. He felt hotter and hotter when he saw the cup grow so wet it became translucent.

“Can I take it off?” He asked.

“Hmmmm.” She hummed. “I don’t know if you've earned that yet, sweetheart.”

“I can.” Though it might have been a warning, because he fell back on her with tongue and teeth until he had her squealing.

“Okay,” She panted. “Gold star effort. By the _gods_ , Jon.” And then she said the magic words. “Take off my bra.”

He quite happily did. Undid the hooks, took each strap off her shoulder with a quick kiss to each, then pulled it down her arms. She didn’t help him along, and he wondered how she always _knew._

Her breasts were as perfect as the first time he’d seen them. They plummeted his IQ by the same drop, too. He flung the lace aside then gave her his mouth like she’d asked for. Gave her more. Those gloved hands fell on his shoulders and started sliding, and it was too many layers of cloth. None of her heat.

He mouthed against her breast; gave a hard suck. Lifted his head.

And her eyes fluttered open. “Yes?”

“Uhhh.” With her head thrown back, the shine of his spit, and the blush he’d drawn out of her—it’d thrown every thought out of his skull. “Can I…?”

She smirked. “Words, Mr. Snow.”

His throat clicked. Holy _gods._ “Can I take off my clothes?”

The dark in her eyes spread like ink. “Yes.” She breathed. “Take them off.”

Anticipation—edged so bright it almost felt like fear. His cock was aching. His lungs were drawing _fire._

But it wasn’t fear; this thing white and blooming and unfurling from his gut. He shucked off his pants first, then reached for his boxer-briefs. She didn’t stop him. “Go on.”

He remembered that show she’d given him, so he offered her a grin as he rolled them off slowly. She bit her lip again. Tisked: “Cheeky.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “And you haven’t even seen my arse yet.”

“Mr. _Snow.”_

He was having the time of his bloody life. The world was rushing. It was easy and difficult and nerve-wracking, when he fisted the back of his shirt a second time. Pulled.

Like ripping off a band-aid.

The shirt came off, and Sansa’s eyes were on his face. Blue as sapphires. Blue as that distant sea. His cock was hard, and he was standing there near bare—his shirt still clutched in one fist. She could see him. See _him._

Her eyes went down, lashes heavy, and then swept back up. “Jon,” She said. “You’re beautiful.”

A tremor rocked through him. His hands went nerveless and the shirt hit the floor. There was something in his throat that felt like he was swallowing thorns. He had to deflect. Had to.

But he didn’t know how. “I’ve…uh. Never heard that one before.”

“You should have.” She answered, and then stepped closer. Not the full breadth—but close. “I thought you were a Lychester painting the first time I saw you. Like I’d seen you on some gallery wall and had my heart stop.”

“Sansa…” She was tearing something out of him. _Wrenching it._

But those gloved hands smoothed his shoulders, dropped down his arms, took his hands—her thumbs to his knuckles.

Her eyes stayed on his. “We should say things that are true. You’re lovely, and I want you to hold me.”

He could do that—had to do it before she pried open his ribs and finished taking his heart. He pulled her into his arms and this time, her breasts met his chest bare. It nearly drove him to his knees. A moan tore out of him helplessly. It was too _intense;_ skin needling and shaking on his very bones. When was the last time? When had he…?

His own hands had never been enough.

He yanked her in so tightly her feet came to perch on his own. Her every breath pushed against his stomach, and his pushed right back. It wasn’t so much holding her as drinking her down. A parched land having water poured on it—sucking in and in and in and never being quenched.

And yet his fissures became soft. The edges began to blur. He was half clawing at her back, and her hands were skating on his. Each gloved palm drew a swathe of fire.

Gods, her skin. Soft soft soft and warm warm _warm._

His skull was buzzing. He was only half-aware of his hardon caught between them. He smelled her, breathed her, then tried to sear the sensation of her skin into his brain. He wanted to thank her, but knew that’d make her sad.

“I want you.” He breathed.

_I want you forever._

But he couldn’t say it. “I want you like I’ve never wanted anything.”

She drew back with a gaze so bare. “It’s the same for me.”

It felt torrential. It felt like his blood was going to ignite. Her hands were on his shoulders again; gave a little tap downwards and then looked to him.

He nodded.

There was too much happening, salivating and shaking. Burning and _needing._

He’d give her anything she’d ask for, and he wanted her to _ask._

“Down on your knees.”

And he gratefully went, catching the pillow she nudged him before letting gravity do its work.

She stroked his face with the backs of her fingers _._ Slowly drifted them outwards until her nails were skimming along his cheek. This frisson near ripped through him. Her touch had been so gentle, but the want it drew out of him was _violent_. And not even for sex—for her, for her to have him closer.

“Gods,” He gasped. “Tell me.”

“I want you.” She tapped his cheek. “To kiss.” She tapped his lips. “My _cunt.”_

Never had a man been given a better order. His hands flew to her hips, hooked her underwear, but then she tucked her fingers beneath his jaw. “Leave them on. I want to see you give some _effort,_ darling.”

He was whimpering again—he could admit it. She was killing him inch by inch, and he was a man happy to go to the grave.

He nosed at the silk; knew her curls were there just out of his sight. The cloth was already damp. He groaned and went to work. Kissing, mouthing, then sucking at her through the silk. Her hands found his hair; petted it.

She was saying all sorts of lovely things. “You’re so good, so perfect. No one’s ever been better to me than you. I always want you, gods— _Jon—”_

He’d wondered if they were capable of it—and then they were. She came right through her panties, and he felt her slick coming down his chin. He could stay down here forever.

But he doubted that she’d let him.

“I want them off now.” She sighed happily. “Use your teeth.”

“Oh, so _now_ it’s okay for my teeth.”

“Hush up, you.”

Jon just grinned and gave a playful bite to her navel. Her hip. His teeth finally caught the hem of her panties and started dragging them down. He had to stop a few times to work down either side, then stop a few more so he could kiss her thighs and then the curls right over her cunt.

His cock was _throbbing._

She murmured all sorts of encouragements; stroked at his cheeks and then his hair when he got out of reach. He pulled the soaked cloth to her knees, kissed the inside of each leg, and then her panties fell the rest of the way. She stepped out of them.

And he wanted to beg. “One more time, Sansa. Please.”

Her hands found his face again and tilted it up. “I don’t know.” She pouted. “That cock of yours looks _awfully_ inviting.”

“I’ll make you come again, my fingers, my tongue. I’ll make it good for you, then I’ll fuck you as hard as you want.”

Those gloved fingers skimmed his mouth and came away damp. She rubbed them together. “Hmmmmmm.”

“Just my mouth.” He begged. “I swear I can—honey, _please.”_

“Only because you asked so nicely, and on one condition.” She bent down and kissed him. “And because I want you to be happy.”

“You make me _very_ happy.” He told her seriously, even as he got his hands between her thighs to separate them. He hitched one leg over his shoulder to open her wide. “What’s the condition?”

Her hands settled on him while her leg hooked tight. Trusted him to hold her.

It was more than he could ask for.

And that sly little curl was back on her mouth. “I want to see your hand on your cock while your mouth is on me. But don’t come—not until you’re inside me, understand?”

He whined. “Blessed gods on _earth_ , Sansa.”

“Is that a no?”

“No. Yes. No? _Fuck._ ” And he shook his head like he could toss the stupid out.

It didn’t work.

“Are you going to do as you’re told?” She asked pertly. “Or am I going to have to push you down and climb on top of you?”

He would very much like that, but— “I will.” And he gripped his cock. Whined. Had to hold himself there a moment so he didn’t spill on the floor between her feet. Though gods, maybe she’d let him do that later? Let him try—

He couldn’t think about it now. Had to get himself under control. He gave himself a loose pump and hoped to the gods that the lack of friction would save him.

He put his mouth on her and then sank his tongue _into_ her. She started quiet and then got loud. This time the endearments were choppy, breaking off into her sighs, her moans. She was losing her breath. Losing the thread.

He kept up a broken rhythm on his cock, trying and failing to keep himself in check. It was so much to concentrate on, her and his hands and her cunt, and yet even with all that he kept edging too close. Every time he stopped though—gave too much to her cunt and not enough to his cock—her ankle would nudge his back and he’d have to go back to work, grunting and muttering under his breath.

At one point, he made the mistake of looking up at her. Her mouth open, panting and finally bitten red. Eyes black. Color high in her cheeks. Looking so blissed and yet so fucking pleased with him—

He took the base of his cock in a _death grip._

He wanted her to come on him; to feel those flutters against his tongue. Taste what ecstasy could be before he lost it. He broadened his tongue, lapped wide. Curled. _Sucked_ —

This time, there was no barrier of silk between them. He felt her bare. Felt her _shake._ Felt her cry and spill while she gripped him so tightly. In that space, he was her only connection to the earth.

He released his length. “Oh thank gods.”

“Jon…” She swayed on one foot, and he immediately pulled her leg from his shoulder so he could lower her to the bed. Her hair was a halo of fire. Her chest was heaving; sheened gold with sweat. He wanted to lick it off her, then decided that he could.

He got in a good half dozen tastes before she gathered her wits to pull him from her. For her to gasp: “That was—gods, that was…”

“Hotter than the surface of the sun?”

“You have such a way with words.”

“You’re the one that decided to sleep with me.”

She just shook her head at him, delightfully exasperated, and then kissed him quiet. Her eyes fell between his legs. “That looks painful.”

He looked down at his weeping cock. She wasn’t wrong. “Yeah…but in a good way?”

“If you say so.” And then she giggled. “Jon, please never change.”

“No risk of that.” And it was his turn to eye her. All she had left on were those sweet little gloves and her socks. “Honey…?”

And she rolled up; gripped his cock and gave a few hard pumps. It felt _incredible_ , but— “You told me not to come outside of—Holy Mother!”

“I hope you’re not thinking of the Holy Mother during this.” But her hand stilled. Traced him. “It’s a lovely cock. Aged twenty-nine, red-blooded Northman, mint condition—”

It was absurd, and yet that sent an embarrassingly sharp bolt of lust to his groin. He groaned. “You just want me on your auction table.”

“Absolutely.” She agreed. “But only on mine.”

But he took her hands and pulled her from him. The game was ending, and he looked her in the eye. “Just us now.”

She nodded. “Just us.”

But she still let him pull off her gloves with his teeth.

It came slower after that. Her into his arms and down onto the sheets. His body covering her. Her bare hands so hot on his back that he nearly _wept._ Abdomen to abdomen. Condom on and him sliding home. Just them. Eyes locked; mouths tangled. Breath shared.

All the time in the world remaining—and none of it.

/~/~/~/

Two days left, and the generator was back on for the last go. The dogs had begun to read the mood in the house, and stayed quiet as they trotted through the halls.

Jon caught her upstairs. “Hey, got a minute? I’ve been thinking about you going back to KL and Lady, and I’ve had an idea.”

“I’m never taking her back there.” She assured him quickly. “I’m not even sure I’m staying there for long.”

He stopped cold. “Really?”

And she shuffled in place. “…yeah, I think so. I’ll probably just go back long enough to arrange a move. I don’t know what I’m doing after that, but the Crownlands and the West are definitely not on. I’ll just have to figure things out from there.”

His shoulders slacked. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that. Not that it’s good you have to leave, but—”

“I know.” And it made her feel rather flushed. “You’re just worried.”

“Uh-huh. But my idea…” And his head tilted up a bit; eyes hitting a long distance beyond her. Considering. “That woman…Cersei? Do you think she’ll just let it go if Lady is hundreds of miles away?”

An entire glacier seemed to drop into her gut. Her arms curled in some reflexive protection. “I…I don’t know. Cersei is…I mean… _damn it_.”

He hurried. “Please don’t be worried—my idea? I think I can get them off your back, at least over Lady. Come in here.” And then he led her to the radio room and to that old computer. There looked to be some kind of form glowing on its screen.

He offered the chair, so she sat on it and let him push her in.

“See?” He said, and pointed to a line. She started reading.

Slowly, what he was showing to her came into focus. Her stomach tumbled. “Jon—I can’t ask you to lie like this. This can’t be legal?”

He shrugged. “At worst, it’s a violation for lodging a false report. Two-hundred stag fine. Though honestly, I could just claim mistake and they’d let it slide. I’ve never caused trouble up here. Well—not _much_ trouble. Nothing in this report is untrue if we’re getting technical. I’m just…omitting some things.”

“What…?” And then she went back to read it again.

_After rescue of Subject #1 (Sansa S. Stark), VFS regulation Section IV, subd. 4, part b did not permit for recovery of Subj. #2 dog (Direwolf, gray. N: Lady). Subject #1 was noted to be an unconscious state with hypothermia suspected. Situation deemed terminal risk. All other elements were left on scene at a total loss. Subject #1 was evacuated by Ranger Snow to VFS Base North, Regional coordinates as follows—_

Horror trickled in. Flooded. Her baby left alone to freeze and die in that car? That horrible dark and ugly space—

The screen blurred. “You weren’t supposed to go back for her?”

He stuttered. “I—gods. Regulation said I should have left her, but I had a good chance, and all the gear was already set up, so—”

And she hurdled right out of the chair. Lunged. Kissed the ever-living _daylights_ out of him.

Jon stumbled but managed to catch them both before they crashed to the floor. He returned her kisses, though with far less frantic ardor. He managed to get her to trail off to pecks so he could hug her and then start rubbing her back. She sniffled.

“I couldn’t have left Lady behind.” He whispered. “Not in a million years.”

She was going to sob. “You’re the _best.”_ And then because her heart was weak, she did. “Thank you, _thank you_.”

“Shhhhhhhhhh.” And his hands kept stroking. He kissed the top of her head. “It’s okay. I’m gonna print you a few copies, and then you’re gonna mail one back to animal control. Just send them the report along with their original letter—don’t say anything else or answer their calls. With any luck, the bureaucrats will call it a day, and that bitch will hear about it and everyone named Lannister will forget you ever had a dog. You and Lady will be safe, alright?”

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yes I did.” And he kissed her hair again. “I can’t go with you—so this is the best I have to offer. I’ll protect you where I can.”

It was a promise he’d made to her what felt like a lifetime ago. Her on that couch and half-insensate from the cold. Shaking. Aching. All alone with a stranger. It should have been terrifying, but she’d felt safe from the first moment. It’d been a nightmare that turned into a dream.

One she’d have to wake up from soon.

But not yet. She pressed her mouth to his shoulder, his neck. This was no stranger in her arms. “I know.”

This was the only person that mattered.

/~/~/~/

She made him cookies to go, then packed a special bag of treats for Ghost. She helped Jon load the truck up, too. It seemed impossible, but they would leave with the morning light.

Where had all the days gone?

All this time, all this sacrifice—and yet it would all slip away quicker than the thaw.

/~/~/~/

That last night went the same as the first. Her on his lap, her legs around his hips, their fronts fused together. Skin and sweat and every breath shared.

Last time. Last condom. Last night of holy reverence.

It had been simpler wrapping his abdomen that second time, the third. Never easy, but _easier._ Something to look forward to after wrestling with his fears.

Gods. Her hands in his hair. The stars in her eyes. His name one last time, breathless in his ear

And then, just like that, it was done.

/~/~/~/

She woke in the dark for the last time.

“Let’s get this show on the road.” Jon grumbled, and she had to agree. No point in wasting daylight.

They doused every fire, cleared the smoke, then cooked their last shared breakfast. Nothing left in the cupboards; nothing left on the shelves. Whatever remained would go into four hungry bellies.

Her chest was a trembling vessel—a creature made of finely spun glass. Fragile. Empty; all light passing through.

But she didn’t voice a word of complaint.

It went so fast. Coats and boots and gloves on. Him helping tie her gear, and then she was carrying the last box before putting the dogs into the backseat of the truck. Behind her, Jon locked the front door.

It couldn’t be that easy, it couldn’t—but it was. And that was what finally cracked her heart in two.

Middle of this yard she’d never see again; that she’d chased their dogs so happily through. Had chased _Jon_ through. He’d tackled her into a snowbank once and kissed the breath from her. He’d showed her the stars here once, so deep in the night.

But the glitter of the sun was high now. The air was so thin it gleamed like silver on the peaks. One turn of a key, and all of it was gone. She stared and stared at the cabin until it smeared in her eyes.

She was alone, and then she wasn’t. Jon gripped her hand. Even through their gloves, she felt his gentle squeeze.

“C’mon.”

The windows were dark and the chimneys were cold. He was right—there was no use lingering here anymore.

She let Jon take her to the truck, help her in, then even fuss with her seatbelt. He put the key into the ignition but didn’t swing it. She looked to him, and he looked back. Morning glory on the mountains, and yet there was a shadow in his eyes.

He cleared his throat…but no words came.

“Jon?”

“It’s nothing.” And then he turned the ignition. If he’d said anything else—the engine drowned it.

Ghost let out a sad woof. Lady whined.

“Hush.” She whispered. “It’s okay, we’re just going on another adventure. That’s my good boy and girl. It’ll be alright.” And she made that promise to them as much as she made it to herself.

Jon dropped the plow and off they went. Within twenty minutes, she saw exactly why he’d never tried to get her home this way. The road was a switchback with treacherous overhangs, and the snow was so deep, she couldn’t actually see the guardrails. If she’d been alone, she would have gone off the road a second time. No question.

They crawled the first three hours. If she had to guess, they’d barely gone ten miles total. A few times, Jon even got out with a shovel to whack an overhang and bring the snow down before they drove through.

He didn’t talk much the whole way, just asked her to soothe the dogs or keep an eye on them when they had a short break outside the truck.

She didn’t know what to say to him. She wanted to kiss him, but he hadn’t kissed her since last night. Maybe he wanted a clean break after their last time together. Gods above, maybe this was for the best. Maybe he thought she was keeping her distance, too.

She kept telling herself that. But every mile, her heart ached more.

“How much longer?”

He squinted over a dizzying drop. “We need to hit the crossroads in the pass. A couple hours, yet.”

“Alright.” But the word felt so damn small. Banal. _Impersonal._

They kept moving. A few more hours, and the sun had hit the center of the sky. It was her that saw them first; those orange strobes of the clearance lights. There was no joy in her when she pointed: “There.”

“Well shit.” Jon muttered. “We’re here.”

They travelled the last hundred feet, came fully around the bend, and then some men in some _much_ larger plow trucks waved them down. The trucks plowed to them, pushed mountains of snow aside—and then she and Jon slipped the gap into a convoy.

Jon’s jaw was rigid. He eyed the array vehicles as they crawled along, then jutted his chin. “There’s Mormont, let’s go talk.”

She had no objection that would get him to wait. “Alright.”

He killed the engine, she grabbed her bag, and then they both leashed their dogs and got out. She followed half a step behind as he led them to a grizzled older man. He was quite a sight: gray-white hair that was mostly in his beard, a wind-burned face, and a rather sour mien under his Vale Forestry cap. Still though, the man’s expression cracked into a smile when he saw Jon. They shook hands, then clasped to a half-cinch in the way men seemed to prefer.

Those piercing eyes turned to her. “C’mon Snow, manners. Introduce me to the lost girl.”

Jon’s grumbling became a dull roar. “Mormont—this is Sansa Stark. She’s been a help, but I’m pretty sure she’s happy to be getting on at this point.”

She cut Jon a sharp glance before accepting Mormont’s handshake. It’d been so long since she’d seen another person, that it took her a few moments to recalibrate and then turn on the charm. She smiled as best she could while making sure she was smiling at Jon not at all.

The man clapped the side of her arm. “You had us worried, Stark, but it’s great to finally get eyes on you. I hope this idiot took care of you alright.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Ranger Snow has been a _prince.”_

Mormont just barked a laugh. “Glad to hear it. C’mon you two, we’ve got paperwork to fill.”

Jon frowned but followed on. “I’ve already gotten her the VFS reports on my end.”

“She needs to do an accident statement, what else?”

“But…we need a Trooper for that.”

And Mormont shot him a withering look. “I’m perfectly aware. But considering I knew you’d be here, I figured we’d forgo that option. Happily enough for everyone, half the Service including yours truly have been deputized these last weeks to keep the Kingdom running. Which means—”

Jon sighed. “We can file the report with you.”

“Give the boy a cookie.”

Sansa didn’t know how to react to any of this, so she settled on politeness. “It’s very kind of you to help out like this, sir. Thank you.”

The cantankerous man warmed considerably. “It’s no trouble considering what’s happened, Miss Stark. And that reminds me.” And he turned around to stare them both in the eye. “I can also help file complaints against the Arryn Troopers, if either of you feel the urge.”

She’d forgotten that part. “Oh.”

But Jon just snarled: “Finally!”

And Mormont snorted. “I already put in mine last week. You should be thanking me on bended fucking knee, Snow. Guess what? While you were putting your feet up in North Base, all holy hell has opened on the front office. Seastar is out for blood. They flooded complaints every place it’s conceivable to file one. Their pretty little CEO, Shiera, even buzzed up here to put a bug in the Warden’s ear. They’ve filed a dump truck of lawsuits. All of them have been thrown out for lack of standing, but they’re giving everyone they can on this heartburn. And that’s not counting all the lawsuits coming from that pileup at the Gates of the Moon. Congratulations, Snow. For once in your life, you are _not_ the lightning rod.”

Jon stumbled to a halt. She bounced off his back with a squeak.

He gaped. “Are you serious?”

“No, I only came up here to lie to you. Of _course_ I’m serious. Mind that fucking mouth, Snow. Who raised you?”

Jon shrugged. “You, partly?”

Mormont scoffed. “ _Pah!”_

And then Jon was grabbing her; taking her arm as they were led to the front of Mormont’s truck. Clipboards and papers were already waiting on the hood.

But Jon pulled her short and really _looked_ at her. And there he was again—her sweet Jon Snow. “I’m going to fill it out, but you don’t have to go after this. You’ve got enough troubles already. Don’t let any of us bully you into anything, alright?”

His face was so dear to her, so familiar. So completely earnest. She had seen it in pain, in sorrow, in ecstasy. Had seen it soft and open when he said something sweet and then kissed the sense from her.

She had seen it vulnerable when he had been willing to share a horrible truth. Those words that had shaken her to her very bones. Gods above and so damned below—how raw and ragged he’d allowed himself to be in front of her. So easy to hurt.

And in that moment, he’d trusted her not to.

She had learned many things up on that mountain, and most of those lessons had come from Jon Snow. And chief amongst them had been bravery—for others and for herself.

And it was time that she used it. “Just help me figure out what to write. They shouldn’t get away with this.”

He swallowed convulsively. “They shouldn’t. But Sansa…”

“Is this going to cause you trouble?”

“According to Mormont, probably not. If he’s put his name on this already, he thinks we have momentum and is willing to go to bat for it. That ain’t an easy thing to get out of him.”

“Maybe it should be.” She muttered. But that seemed reasonable—and didn’t sound like Jon was only saying what she wanted to hear. She squeezed his arms. “Let’s do this.”

And they did. Pulling off gloves and taking up pens, checking each other’s spelling and comparing notes. Mormont interviewed her for the accident report, but after that spent all his time absolutely enchanting both their dogs. The babies, duplicitous creatures that they were, looked up at the man scratching their bellies like he was the hand of the gods personally come down to pat them.

She and Jon gave their reports over, got the carbon copies back, and then Mormont was handing her Lady’s leash. “All right, Stark, into the truck. I’ve got a Ranger farther on who’s willing to take you to White Harbor. Least we could do after the delay.”

It had been the agreed upon offer—and it saved her being trapped in a car with Arya. “Thank you very much.”

Behind her, it was hard to tell if it was Ghost or Jon that started rumbling. “Who do you got taking her?”

Mormont shot him a _very_ assessing look. “Ranger Stone. She’s got mandated leave for a few days. She and her wife are going to White Harbor, and _very graciously_ offered our friend here a ride.”

Jon didn’t look remotely chastised. He just brightened and then turned towards her. “That’s Mya Stone, you’ll like her. Ask her to tell you about the history of mules in the Eyrie. I guarantee you’ll love it.”

Gods, did he know her so well. “I will.”

Mormont just shook his head and then eyeballed them both something fierce. “Are you setting her up to be bored to tears?”

“You just don’t appreciate history.” Jon answered smugly, and Sansa felt herself smiling a secret little smile to herself. Wiggling.

Feeling joy, if only for a moment.

Mormont looked at her and then the truck. It was a simple gesture, but she knew what it meant: it was time to go.

“Jeor, give us a minute.” And then Jon had her arm again. “Just gotta say a few things.”

“ _Do_ you?” But the man waved them on. “Make it quick, Snow. I don’t got all day, and I’ve got a Fed who needs to talk to you about a bridge.”

Jon blinked owlishly. “What?”

But Mormont just shooed them, and Jon took the reprieve to hurry her along. She held tightly to him and felt no shame in it.

So many hours, so many days—

Jon pulled them behind another trailer to give them cover. She didn’t know which of them moved first, but one moment she was standing there, and the next they were flinging their arms around each other and clutching on.

Her mind was spiraling. _Last time last time lasttimelasttime—_

And her voice broke. “I’ll miss you. Every day.”

“Me too.” And his throat rasped like a drag of gravel. “Gods fucking _fuck,_ me too, honey.”

She gripped tighter and tried to memorize him. Those broad shoulders, the shape of his hands, the smell of his aftershave still clinging to his neck. Why couldn’t she stay in his arms forever? Why couldn’t she…?

He enclosed her. “Promise me you’ll be safe back there.”

The sky was so bright, and so were the tears in her eyes. “I promise.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “That’s real good. Sansa…I put my email on one of the reports. Please, just…send me a message when you get to KL. Get out, find a job, whatever. I just wanna know you made it okay.”

A human body wasn’t meant to contain so much feeling—this rupture of a heart between joy and agony.

She struggled for words past the lump in her throat. “I will. You tell me the same. Take care of yourself and get lots of sleep, and tell me what they have you doing. And you make sure to treat my sweet Ghostie in the manner to which he’s grown accustomed, got it?”

His laugh bubbled like water. “He’s going to be insufferable without you.”

She sniffled too. “You won’t have to hear Lady cry all the way to White Harbor. Trust me, you’re getting off easy.”

“I bet.” And his arms went looser. The distance was coming, and it couldn’t be stopped. “Sansa…”

Bravery, she told herself, and she raised her head.

He was beautiful. He’d pulled off his hat when they’d been filling forms, and his curls were half wild. Lit by the sun. Mussed and tired and his stubble so ragged, but gods, was he a man still gorgeous. That mouth that had loved her. Those eyes that had devoured her.

This soul that had comforted her.

She kissed him then, because nothing in this break could ever be clean. Ever be easy.

And Jon kissed her back. Pushed. On and on with the world spinning around. Snow crunching under boots, voices arguing, trucks pouring their exhaust. But in his touch, she was back on that mountain. In the wind, the wilds.

His gentle arms.

He pulled away. She took off a glove and tucked back a few of his curls. Offered: “You mean so much to me. It wasn’t the crash or the avalanche or anything else, it’s _you._ But I know that right now…”

He nodded. “Future’s no guarantee. I wish I could say something different to you here, but I can’t. I want you to email me, and I won’t even be near a computer much. It’s just…” He stared up at the sky. Sunlight pale on his face. Eyes glassy. “If you’re ever in these parts again, you drop me a line, you hear?”

For now. For now—

It’d have to be enough. It wasn’t a promise, it wasn’t a future.

But maybe one day…

She sheltered that hope. “I will. You couldn’t keep me away.” And for the last time in this journey together, she kissed him. A clinging of mouths. Barely a breath.

A parting.

All of these hours, all of these days.

/~/~/~/

But all things had their ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author rn:
> 
> So a bit of a long author's note here, but I wanted to give some thoughts on why I'm making the choices that I am in this story. Why didn't I have Jon and Sansa get together at the cabin? Simply put, that's a bad character choice, a bad story choice, and a boring choice. If I had them get together now, the next chapter would literally be epilogue because there's not much else to tell after that. If the only narrative tension was pure logistics of Jon and Sansa arranging their lives together...guys, that's dull as hell. 
> 
> Will they be able to get together? Will they choose each other? Exciting. Will Sansa find the right job? Will Jon have to make any changes to his life? Boring. Well, by themselves, at least.
> 
> Also to be frank, I feel like both Jon and Sansa have been a bit too burned in relationships either recently, or have unprocessed trauma from the past, and need to work on themselves for awhile and separately. Sansa gave Jon a really great incentive to push out of the rut he's in, but it could easily turn into being a crutch if all of his progress is just wrapped up in their sex life. Jon NEEDS to do some stuff purely for himself at this point.
> 
> And this whole cabin adventure has been highly emotionally charged. Near death experiences, rescue complexes, hero complexes, enforced isolation, and a whole boiling pot of sexual chemistry...I'm not saying this in a bad way, but I think both Jon and Sansa need a reality check and to be back into the real world/their lives for awhile. See what burns off as heat of the moment, and see what sticks. That would then be, in my opinion, a much healthier foundation to build on when they've had some time for true clarity.
> 
> I find it much stronger thematically and emotionally that they choose each other when it's hard, _not_ when it's easy. But that's just my two cents.
> 
> Though sometimes things also change as a story goes along. This separation? In my original vague plans, the parting was going to be no contact/we will never see each other again/woe/maybe even a misunderstanding or two. But I realized with the bond they built and the communication they had established...that wasn't going to ring true anymore. Which is how we got this version were a very thin tether of communication has been established, but neither Jon nor Sansa know what to do with it/where it's going yet.
> 
> Now in other news...I'm aware there was a lack of doggo reaction to the separation, but I can only take so much sadness in one chapter. I'll punch all of us in the hearts later on that.
> 
> Anyhow folks, tune in next time for: Sansa handles her business, comes into her newly born confidence, and figures out what it is she _really_ wants out of life.


	17. Melt Freeze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The Bite still doesn't exist in this verse. However...I realized White Harbor is a weird name if the city is landlocked. Anyhow. The North now has a chain of rivers and lakes leading from the ocean, that huge cargo ships can travel on. The last spot when the rivers narrow too much for further travel is White Harbor. You can cross bridges over these rivers from the Vale and into North. Plot hole averted!
> 
> One other note: there is Stark family drama this chapter. The Starks are fractious, and have many issues and stress lines running different directions between family members. It's slowly coming to a head--but the actual blowup is meant for the sequel (surprise: there's an Avalanche sequel!). They love each other, but they're all difficult in their own ways. And a lot of Ned and Cat's parenting choices have consequences that are finally coming around.
> 
> People get really tetchy about this because, I assume, we've all had shitty family at some point, and feel very defensive of our faves and don't want them to suffer our own wounds/mistakes/what have you. But breaking away and/or standing up to family is HARD, and I'm not going to hear one poor word said about Sansa on this. If you think she's causing problems too, and want to discuss, feel free. If you want to be offended on her behalf and hiss from the peanut gallery, go gangbusters. But anything victim-blamey or calling Sansa stupid will be struck dead, and I will yeet your ass out of the comments.
> 
> Family is difficult. Just keep that in mind. There will be a reckoning with the Starks...but that day isn't today.

She liked Mya Stone from the first moment. Her wife, too.

“Pleasure to be your guide off the mountain today, I’m Mya.” And the woman offered her a gloved hand. She was tall, absolutely fit, with dark hair and eyes so blue that they defied description. She had a punishingly strong grip. For a startling moment, the woman reminded her of Edric Storm. Mya looked down to Sansa’s hip, and that familiarity only grew stronger when her smile turned blinding. “And who is this perfect little princess?”

Lady, who moments ago had been sulking, straightened right up. Whined.

“Yes, your majesty!” The woman agreed, scrubbing a glove over the dog’s fur until Lady was appeased and wiggling. The moment the petting stopped, though, the direwolf went right back to glaring at Sansa.

She more than deserved it.

The wind picked up, whipping Mya’s chin length hair into her face. She cursed. “C’mon, into the SUV. It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.”

Sansa couldn't argue the point. She waved goodbye to Mormont, who lifted his fingers from the steering wheel as he drove off. She gave Mya her bag to stow, and within moments was slotted into the luxurious backseat of a very expensive SUV. Lady sat beside her but refused to be pet or acknowledge her owner’s existence.

There was an equally beautiful woman in the driver’s seat. The woman was shorter than Mya, had chestnut hair, and a clever mouth beneath far too piercing eyes. “Well, _hello_.” She murmured, voice as rich as melted caramel.

“Don’t you hello her, you saucy bitch.” Mya scolded, but that was immediately punctuated by a kiss against the driver’s cheek. “Sansa, this is my wife Myranda Royce. Don’t believe anything she says.”

Myranda just grinned. “You’re a gorgeous little thing, Sansa.”

 _“Nothing!”_ Mya trampled on. “Not a single word!”

Myranda cooed. “But she _is_ pretty.”

“That is beside the point!”

Myranda just put the SUV into gear with a laugh. “Blood pressure, dear, remember? You promised me you’d relax on this little vacation.”

“Eh.” But Mya did slump into the passenger seat.

“You know I love you.” Myranda murmured, and for a moment, the pair shared a smile that had Sansa aching. Both women were gorgeous, and in their mid-thirties by Sansa’s guess. They had clearly been together for some time and were utterly besotted with each other. It tied her up in knots to see it.

Myranda asked: “Sansa, how was your time in the Vale?”

It made her hot under the collar. “It was lovely, Jon was very—all of it was lovely.”

Mya just smiled along. Myranda, on the other hand, shot her a rather assessing look.

Gods help her in changing the subject. “Mya, are you by chance related to a Storm family? Around Shipbreaker’s Bay?”

Mya’s eyebrows rose. “Not to my knowledge, why?”

Sansa flushed immediately. “I mean—no real reason. You just remind me of someone I went to college with.”

“There’s always the chance.” Myranda interjected.

Mya just rolled her eyes at them both. Sansa made to apologize, but the Ranger just threw an uncaring hand. “No big. Daddy-o is a bit of a question mark, and also a _slut_ if mum’s stories are anything to go by. For all I know, half the Kingdoms could be related to me. It’s just one of those things.”

Myranda threw back her head and cackled. “If we ever meet him, please call him a slut to his face.”

“I will, don’t think I’ll hesitate.” And Mya flicked another smile towards the backseat. “Don’t sweat asking, okay? I’ve got my mom, and Myranda’s great big pack of Royces in the Vale. Trust me when I say that particular riot is more than enough.”

Sansa glanced around the near six-figure SUV carrying her. While Mya was a public servant, Myranda had an honest to gods _mink coat_ bundled beneath her chin. Sansa’s curiosity had embarrassed her so many times over the years, but that still never stopped her. “You’re not one of _those_ Royces, are you?”

Myranda’s lips were painted mulberry. They pulled into a ravishing smirk. “Guilty.”

“Yep.” And Mya popped the P. “My Myranda is the gorgeous career woman from an illustrious family line, and I’m but the poor public servant allowed to be her trophy wife.”

“Stop telling people you’re my trophy wife.”

“Never.” Mya refused. “You married me for my body and stunning good looks, don’t deny it.”

“Ha!”

But Sansa was excited by the revelation. “I’ve heard you guys have some amazing artifacts still in the family. Bronze armor, tapestries, manuscripts—”

“We do.” Myranda agreed. “Dreadfully dusty things; another branch of the family handles all that. You interested in that sort of thing?”

Sansa deflated slightly. “Oh.” Then did her best to recover. “Yeah, I work…used to work at an auction house. I would have been bad at my job not to know who the Royces are. I love learning history from every kingdom. Actually, Mya—Jon mentioned you know a lot about mules in the Vale? I’d love to hear about that, if you don’t mind.”

“Do I _mind??”_ And Mya nearly crawled into the backseat with her. “By the gods, where do I start. Okay, my family has been into this for ages; my job as a Ranger is to use our mules to get supplies to cut off areas and do SAR for skiers. So I’ve always been fascinated by all this, you know? Mules are the oldest and best sort of transport you could use up here, and the first major mention we have of them is when the Eyrie was built in—"

“Here we go.” Myranda snorted. Mya just ignored her wife and launched into a detailed and frankly breathtaking rendition of the historical importance of the mule to the economic and cultural livelihood of the Vale. Sansa was enchanted.

Despite any seeming mockery, when Mya was excitedly making a point with her hand that nearly smacked off the dashboard, Myranda just glanced over. Gaze so open. Fond. Quietly, she caught Sansa’s eye in the rearview mirror and smiled at her.

Love could be such a plain thing. Wrenching. Her mouth still stung where Jon’s lips had pressed to hers.

She never wanted it to fade.

Her lashes fluttered rapidly to keep the tears at bay. The discussion with Mya carried them an hour until the light broke open. They rounded the curve of a pass until the mountains fell away. Valleys widening. Plains sprawling. A swathe of white and then the distant break of the rivers spilling into the lakes. It was here at last: the hazy shine of White Harbor distant on the horizon.

Never had such a beautiful sight cleaved her heart in two.

She sniffled once. At that, Lady started yowling. This time, the dog let Sansa pull her down into her lap to pet her miserable head.

Both women jolted, and Mya wheeled around. “Is she okay, is it her leg?”

“No.” And Sansa pulled her gloves off and started smoothing Lady’s fur again. “She fell in love with Ranger Snow’s dog. She just misses him.”

“Good taste.” Mya declared pompously. “Ghost is an absolute sweetiepie. So cute! And very good at his job, that’s quite important, you know. If you can’t pick ‘em rich, pick ‘em competent.”

“Thanks, Mya.” Myranda responded dryly.

Mya just smiled back at her wife beatifically.

Sansa felt her lips tug up. Almost a smile, but not quite. “He is.” And she missed Ghost, too. It had only been half a day, but she missed them both _so much_. Her throat cleared roughly, but clear it did. She wouldn’t cry. Not here.

That time would come soon enough.

“Don’t mind Lady. If she knows she has an audience, she’ll play it up.” A particularly loud cry greeted that. Sansa flattened Lady’s ears to quiet her. “Mya—about the mules, where did you learn all that?”

Mya took the conversational change in stride. “Family pass down, but one of Myranda’s third cousins twice-whatever has this bookstore. He’s one of those artifact-y Royces. Great stuff; he found me so many old journals from back then. Here, I think that you—” And then went digging into the wheel well at her feet.

“Stop rifling through my purse!” Myranda snapped.

“Why? Is it so big because it’s full of secrets?”

“It’s full of my carefully ordered life which _you_ _keep messing up._ ”

Mya ignored that. “Ah-ha!” And popped back up with a business card in hand. “You can thank Randa for being a packrat. Anyhow, this is his shop. If you like history stuff, I really recommend you check him out. He’s good karma—it’s how I met my gorgeous girl, here.”

The mood on the driver’s side flipped from annoyed to pleased. Myranda fluffed her hair. “Greatest good my family ever did me.”

“I am pretty great.” Mya agreed smugly. “I was grabbing another journal he’d found, and there was this beautiful girl picking up psychology books at the counter.” And Mya groaned from deep in her chest. “Those boots you had on, Ran. Mother _save me._ ”

“Those were my wife-me boots.” Myranda confided to Sansa. “Get’s ‘em every time.”

“Hook line and sinker.” Mya agreed, gaze latched firmly on her wife. “I stood no chance.” And then pushed her hand blindly in Sansa’s direction.

Sansa took the card before Mya stabbed her in the face with it. _Bronze Books_ , it read, and she felt a surprised little jolt in seeing its address in Strongsong. It was an opportunity missed, and one she felt most keenly. If Jon had gotten her to that town all those weeks ago, would he have taken her there? Spent a few hours between the stacks before sending her on?

Gods knew it wouldn’t have happened. They hadn’t been together then. There would have been no stealing kisses between the shelves; no feeling him press her spine against spines. No having his hand in hers, nor his indulgent grin as he patiently let her ramble about whatever caught her fancy.

The loss of it _burned._

Her lashes were fluttering again. The open plains beyond blurred in the windshield. Her heart was trembling wherever she’d left it so far behind.

She pocketed the card, then decided: “Maybe someday.”

/~/~/~/

They stopped at a park in White Harbor three blocks from Arya’s. Mya had looked at the park, Lady, and then at Sansa hopefully. The intent had been more than clear, so Sansa offered: “Ask her to fetch a stick, and she’d love you forever if you threw it.”

Mya grinned. “On it. Come, princess, your royal scepter awaits!”

Lady made a pitiful whine, backside wagging slowly, but still jumped from the SUV. The dog hobbled after Mya like she was being punished.

Sansa didn’t buy it. A minute later when a stick was found, Lady’s ears swung straight up. She barked and hopped in the snow; eyes zeroed. Mya flung the stick like a javelin.

Lady tore after it.

Sansa got her bag and settled on a bench. Myranda settled beside her. “An animal lover, that one. Make sure you actually leave with your dog.”

“Mya isn’t the first to fall in love with Lady, and she won’t be the last.” But a sigh escaped her. Whatever thoughts she had, they were so distant from here. The past was set in stone. The future was fog. Where was she going, honestly? If she could get a job at, say, Sunspear—would she even take it? That would be the end if she did. No Jon. No _chance_ of Jon.

Finding another boyfriend—Jon hadn’t been her boyfriend, but she didn’t _want_ to find anyone else. She knew rather keenly that someday, Jon would spend one day in civilization too many. Some other woman would finally see what Sansa already knew in her bones. How lovely he was, how kind, how all consuming. Know the way his mouth was shaped, how he kissed, the way his tongue felt deep in her cunt—

That hot churn of jealousy nearly made her sick.

There were choices here, maybe no clear options yet, but _choices._ It was her that could make things more likely than not. It was her that could give them a chance.

Maybe someday could actually be _someday._

But only if she fought for it. “Myranda, how long have you and Mya been together?”

And Myranda’s gaze went beyond the trees. Misted. “Eight years on, and married for four. Whole thing surprised me at the start. Crowds I ran in always acted like a relationship was settling; the old ball and chain. I felt that way for a long time, too. I didn’t realize being in a relationship could make your life more instead of less. Not ‘til Mya.”

From the moment she could understand them, Sansa had loved love stories. This was just another to be cherished. A bookstore, a gorgeous girl in boots, a scruffy Ranger with a journal about mules clutched to her chest. Falling in love, and that other girl falling right back. Easily.

The mountains were behind her now, a man with dark eyes and steady hands toiling somewhere in them. He’d slipped so deeply into her in every way. She could leave him there in the past, and always wonder what might have been.

Theirs wasn’t a love story yet…but it could be. And if she wanted there to be more chapters, or even a chance at them, then she had to _try_. “Is it hard being with a Ranger? The way Jon talked…their postings are pretty remote a lot of the time. How do you do it?”

Myranda turned then and stared straight _through_ her. A breath passed. The woman looked away, watched Mya hurdle the stick again, and yet that moment had torn Sansa open.

Myranda knew.

The other woman took a sharp breath. “I won’t say it was easy. I was lucky when we got weekends, and sometimes there’d be a full month where I couldn’t see her because she was stuck on some peak doing her mule whispering.” And those delicate shoulders rolled beneath mink. “There are permanent postings in a few towns, or near enough to them. But the Service tries to make sure the rangers with kids get those first. Once we got married, Mya really fought for a semi-stationary post. We had to move three times for it, but we were lucky. I’m a psychiatrist; I can find patients anywhere. We both worked hard for it. I made the moves, and she made the time and travel. We both made sacrifices—she turned down a promotion once that would have moved us a fourth time. Some of those choices hurt, but I like to think neither of us regret them. Not anymore.”

It was an overwhelming thing. Too colossal, too painful. Too _tender_ to stare at head on. She dug a toe into the snow at their feet. “…I’m glad that you two are happy. I really am.”

“Me too.” She murmured, and her lips curled up. Breath like smoke. Eyes always on Mya. “I only met Ranger Snow a couple times. He doesn’t socialize much with the rest of the Service, but he seems a good sort.”

Strength suffused her. “He’s the best sort.”

“To put a look like that on your face?” And Myranda shot her a teasing grin. “He must be.”

And Sansa felt her cheeks go pink. Remembered how much Jon loved teasing her into flushing; how he’d kiss below her eyes and then across her mouth. _You’re adorable, honeybee. C’mere._

“Tell you what.” Myranda offered. “Why don’t we trade numbers? We had a lovely time with you, and if you’re ever in the Vale again, we’d love to take you to dinner.” Then that mouth turned sly. “And if dinner happens to become a double date, well. We won’t complain.”

Sansa flushed violently. Hoped. Gods, she truly, deeply _hoped._

Mya came back to them—Lady trailing behind her and panting like a bellows—to see Sansa being handed Myranda’s phone. The Ranger asked: “What are you doing?”

“Getting a pretty girl’s number.” Myranda chirped.

“Rude? Getting a hot girl’s number before me?” And Mya pulled out her own phone and jabbed it in Sansa’s direction. “We’d love to hear from you. And hey, if you ever come across anything about pack animals in your books…?”

The sun was high, the faces around her were smiling, and something opened like a flower inside her. “I’d love to share it.”

/~/~/~/

She went to a phone store before going to Arya’s apartment. The less time she and her sister spent within the same four walls, the better.

Her new cellphone was sorted quick, even with the salesgirl stopping to fuss over Lady every other minute. Sansa pulled out the paperwork that had come with her from the Vale. Found an email address, then typed it in while Lady continued to sulk at her feet.

Pets from strangers could only solve so much.

There wasn’t any surety in what to say. What could be said? She took a picture of Lady first, attached it. Let the words come.

_Lady misses Ghost already. Look at that face: how is she meant to live without her great doggy love?_

_I made it to White Harbor and will be at my sister’s soon. Mya and Myranda were lovely, I was so glad to meet them. The drive went quick getting to talk to them. You were right in telling me to ask Mya about mules—I’ve never learned so much outside a lecture hall! I bet she’s amazing to work with. You’re lucky._

_I hope you and Ghost are okay, wherever you are._

_I’m thinking of you._

/~/~/~/

Her phone, as soon as the system caught up, became a disaster. Her mother had flooded her voicemail while poor Beth had sent her a manifesto of increasingly alarmed texts. She scrolled and scrolled until the final one read: _I called your mom, she told me what happened. Please be safe. Call me as soon as you can. I love you._

It would be so easy to cry. She went back to the park and dialed Beth first. Her friend picked up on the second ring: “You scared the living daylights out of me! Sansa Stark, are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.”

She was. She wasn’t. And it all devolved from there. She skimmed a little, but not as much as before. The Lannisters, Lady, the man in the woods.

Beth gasped like she’d been scalded. “I’ll fight them! Those absolute moldy rats!” The Cassel had come out of Beth rather late in life, but come violently it had.

Sansa loved her utterly. “No you won’t.”

“I’ll get Jory to take twenty direwolves down there and fight them! Sweetie, I’m so sorry. That must have been terrifying. I would have done anything if you’d…”

Guilt pierced her right to the marrow. She swallowed its venom. “That’s my fault. I got so up in my head—you know how I am. It all happened so fast, and then I was completely out of contact. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, babybun, don’t apologize. I’m going to help, okay? Just tell me when you’re going down to KL to pack up, and I’ll take a long week to come with you.”

“Beth—”

“With. _You_. I’m bringing a softball bat.”

“You used to be so much sweeter than this.”

“I’ll cuddle you the whole trip. We’ll hold hands in the car and sing songs.”

And she laughed so wetly. “I love you, Bethy.”

“I love you too, Sansy.”

They talked about the crash after that. The rescue; maybe even mentioned a handsome Ranger Snow once or twice.

Beth had despaired. “Only you would turn a car crash into spending a month alone with a hot guy, I _swear_. So…not to pry or anything…but did you two…?”

The silence trailed long. The miles were long, too, and Sansa felt so bereft in them. So far up that mountain and distant from it all. “I just…” And her chest hitched. “Can we talk about this another day?”

Her friend turned gentle. “Of course. I’m sorry…I’m just so sorry that all of this happened. You didn’t deserve any of it. I’m coming to White Harbor to get you; you can come stay with me until you get this sorted.”

Her inner northwoman railed against accepting help. Her common sense railed back. It was physically painful to mumble: “…if that’s okay.”

“Don’t even start with me, Miss Stark. I’ve missed poofy-soft perfect Lady so much, and this is only for her benefit.”

“Of course.” She answered. “I understand your position.”

“And then you can tell me all about handsome Ranger Snow! Besides, you and Arya would murder each other in two days. I’m doing a public service.”

She snorted. “You’re a giver, Beth Cassel. Could you…please don’t say anything to Jory, he tells mom everything.”

There was a significant pause. “Sansa, are you not telling your folks about this?”

“I don’t need the _I told you so,_ just because they hate my life choices.” She answered sharply. “They’ll know I got in a car crash and quit my job. I can handle everything else.” Her father was a horrible stickler for rules besides. Given half the chance, he’d probably hand Lady over to animal control himself while admonishing her for trying to dodge it. And her mother—her mother didn’t need any bad reputation coming back on the breeding line. Lady would be legally dead soon, and nobody ever need know why. “Promise me.”

“I promise.” Beth sighed. “See you soon, okay? And don’t start any more adventures until I get there.”

/~/~/~/

It was time to rip off the band-aid. She went to Arya’s apartment at sunset. She’d originally thought she’d be staying the night, but that was no longer needed. Still, there was no reason to be rude. She’d called ahead with the Sat Phone, so Arya _did_ expect her to show.

She hit the buzzer.

There was a crackle of static. _“Yeah?”_

“It’s Sansa.”

 _“About bloody time! Up you get!”_ And the buzzer sounded. The door unlatched. Sansa scoffed and entered the renovated warehouse Arya called home. She knocked on the white door on the second floor. Arya flung it open, not even offering a hello before she gasped: “What happened to Lady?”

“Great to see you too, Arya.”

“I’m letting you in, aren’t I? But sure: how are you? Fine, that’s what you always say. I’ll say fine back when you ask, even though you don’t actually care, and I don’t know why you keep trying. I’m saving us time.” And then Arya fell to her knees to immediately start lavishing Lady in pets. Lady accepted them with dignity, even as she shot Sansa another harsh glance.

Fucking typical. She stepped past the two she-wolves in the doorway and into Arya’s space. It was as it ever was; splashes of frenetic color, mess everywhere, all the furniture pushed to the corners. The greater space of the apartment was dedicated to Arya’s home gym and fencing piste. It was all their father talked about these days—they were within months of trials for the International Games, and Arya’s name was on the lips of fencing circles as a contender. The whispers were sure she’d make the team, maybe even medal in Norvos.

Of all the things she could say of her sister, at least she’d always been dedicated to her craft. To making their father proud. That was more than the rest of them could say.

“You didn’t answer me—what happened to Lady?”

And dedicated to being a pain in the arse, too.

Anything said to Arya always, _always_ got back to their father, so she raised an eyebrow and answered: “I’m dialing mum, I only want to tell this story once.”

“Ugh.” But Arya went to the kitchen in the opposite corner and found Sansa a can of lemonade and herself some sparkling water. They both sat down at the kitchen table—tiny thing that it was—and dialed. Lady very pointedly put her head in Arya’s lap.

Her mother also picked up on the second ring. “Sansa! You managed to call Arya this whole time and not us?”

“Hi mom.”

Arya rolled her eyes. For once, Sansa mirrored her sister as she continued: “The Sat Phone was for emergency use only. I’m sorry.”

Her mother hurried. “Oh gods, don’t listen to me. Sansa, are you alright? Arya told us you were in a crash? But she didn’t tell us much else.”

Arya grunted. “That’s ‘cause I didn’t know anything else, which _I told you.”_

Catelyn ignored her utterly. “Do you need a new car? Your father said the Mollen’s are looking to sell one.”

“I need a car, but just—slow down. I wanted to tell you guys what happened. I was coming to see Arya, but with the Neck closures, I took a route through the Vale. Because of the storm, the Vale gates were supposed to be closed, but they weren’t and I got through. After I crashed—the Arryn Troopers swore the gate I went through was shut by them, so they searched the wrong area. That’s why a forest ranger found me. He took me to one of their bases, and then we got cut off by that awful storm.”

Arya’s fingers clawed around her glass _._ “You’re saying the cops lied?”

She shrugged. “It seems so. I filed a complaint, but I don’t know what’ll happen with that.”

Their mother gasped. “That can’t be legal—you could have been in so much danger!”

She didn’t know how big this thing against the Troopers was going to get, so there was no skimming this part when she answered: “I was in danger. The road…I went into a ravine. A deep one. I…it was touch and go for awhile. I was in the car for hours without heat. If Ranger Snow hadn’t found me when he did…” She struggled with the lump in her throat. “I wouldn’t be talking to any of you right now.”

Her mother let out a horrible, half-gutted sound. Arya’s lashes fluttered. “Holy shitting balls, Sansa.”

“Language.” Their mother admonished faintly. “Baby, your father and I will come and get you right now. Are you okay? Do you need to go to the doctor—I’ll get you setup with Doc Luwin, he still has your childhood files—”

“Mom.” She interrupted. “It’s okay. Listen, Beth is coming to get me tonight. I’ll be in Cerwyn. If you want to see me…” She didn’t want an _I told you so_ , but gods, she so badly wanted some hugs from her mum right now. “You can come to Beth’s apartment. And Lady—” She felt the lie. Weighted it. Tasted its omission sour. “She got hurt. Her leg’s broken, but I’ve got it splinted up.”

“Poor thing!” Their mother cried, then cupped the phone and seemed to turn to someone else. “Call Farlen—yes, Farlen. We’re setting up an appointment for my daughter’s dog. I don’t care that it’s a weekend!” And came back on. “We’ll get Lady looked at; the both of you.” And then her mother whispered with such wrenching feeling: “Oh, _Sansa_.”

It sent tears springing in her eyes. She’d been through the wringer and back a second time, but hearing that pain from her mother…it wouldn’t hurt to be sure. To make her mum feel better. “Alright.”

Their mother’s voice shook. “I love you so much, Sansa. I’ve been so worried.”

The lump thickened. “I know. M’sorry.”

“Is there anything else you need right now?”

She chewed it over. Figured it was easier to do in a single go. “I got stranded so long in the Vale I had to quit my job. I’ll be moving out of KL, I’ve had enough of it.”

Arya’s glass clunked off the table.

Her mother’s silence was _deafening._ “Sansa…I never quite understood it, but you loved that job so much.”

“It’s my choice.”

“But you could tell them what happened? I’m sure they’d take you back if only you explained—”

“No.” And she put it down like iron. “It’s done. I’m not going back. I’m going to be at Beth’s before and after I move my stuff from the city. I’ll put it in storage until I figure out what I’m doing.”

Her mother paused another long moment. “…alright. You know, I always thought that a teaching position in Winterfell—”

“Not right now, mom.” And she dug her palms into her forehead. “Please not right now.” 

“Just say the word, and your father and I will ask around.” And then her mother kept on. “Arya, make sure your sister gets to Beth okay. And call your father later—he wants to hear about your match next week.”

“Okay, mom.” They parroted.

“I love you both.” She answered. “Gods be good. Be safe, we’ll talk more about this tomorrow.”

And the line clicked off. The silence unfurled. It cluttered the air.

She’d lived a decade in a single day. Had Jon kissed her goodbye only that morning? He must have, the smell of evergreen was still clinging to her skin. This much exhaustion, this much hurt—it would have been Jon’s shoulder she sought for comfort. His arms that she crawled into.

But Jon wasn’t here.

“Why?”

She blinked the grit away. “What?”

“You don’t visit _me_ ; you just swing by when you’re heading toward mom and dad’s.” And Arya eyed her shrewdly. “Why were you coming up here to begin with? You were fucking around on a weekday, and Sansy goody two shoes never does that.”

A muscle clamped in her jaw. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Uh—duh? It does? You were the one asking me for help.”

“And I’m grateful you were willing to come get me and give me a spot to sleep, but I don’t need it now. Your services are rendered. I’ll see you at your trials, okay?” And she shoved up from the table, drained her lemonade, and threw it into the overflow of recycling. She took up her bag. Lady was already up and following.

Arya hollered after her. “Sure, flounce off like you always do. We both know you’re hiding something. You always start playing the victim so mom and dad never question what you’re up to!”

It struck her like a bell being tolled. Reverberating; loud and horrible. She wheeled around. “I play the victim? I’m sorry—what alternate childhood were you living in? Why don’t you go running to dad so he takes your side? That’s your usual play when anything doesn’t go your way.”

Her sister’s face went blotchy. “Fuck off!”

“Gladly.” And she made for the door again. Lady hurried after her, nearly knocking into the back of her knees. Her baby had never liked yelling.

Reality was slipshod and careening out of control. Heart hammering, face burning, stomach eating itself once more. Her sister brought this out in her, and she hated how she always followed it into her worst self.

She flew through the door and down the stairs. Somewhere above her, the apartment door slammed shut.

They were back outside, the air so cold it blew her mind clear. She breathed and breathed and tried to bank the adrenaline. She had so far yet to go tonight. There was no crashing, no sinking. Not yet.

Gods. Into his arms, the firelight flickering, their bodies curling so warmly around the other. Safe and known and everything she’d dreamed of. But Jon—

In the dark of that street corner, Lady nosed her loose palm. Licked it.

It drew some pain away. “Forgive me yet?”

Lady snorted rudely.

“No, you’re right. You deserve to be angry a little longer.” And she breathed it through. “Don’t let anyone tell you how to feel, alright?” Lady just snuffled her assent, then sat beside her and leaned against her leg.

She wanted to sleep, she wanted to.

But the distance was miles yet.

/~/~/~/

The next few weeks were a blur. Shrieking in delight to fall back in Beth’s arms. Cerwyn swimming in the dark as they drank and bitched an entire weekend away. Her parents coming to swoop her and Lady out to Winterfell’s doctors.

It turned out Sansa had one very faint hairline fracture in a rib. There was nothing to do but let it heal, and she debated whether she’d ever tell Jon about it. She knew that it would bother him, worry-wart that he was.

She also knew that she _wouldn’_ t tell Jon about the pregnancy test she’d gotten. They’d used condoms every time, but they’d also fucked drunk more than once, and nothing was foolproof.

The test came back negative.

She’d tucked that knowledge inside of herself. Tucked away all thoughts of dark-haired, blue-eyed babes, and the mad dreams they lingered in.

The crash hadn’t done Lady any good, either. Harlen had replaced Lady’s frankly grubby splint, handed over a new prescription, then given them a heal-date two weeks out from what the KL veterinarian had provided. Even at Harlen’s raised eyebrows, she’d requested Lady be given a pregnancy test. She was fairly sure they’d stopped the dogs from mounting, but…

“Your mother’s not going to be pleased about this.”

Sansa snorted. “She’ll be even less pleased if I call back in a month saying: surprise, Lady’s up the duff!”

But that test had come back negative, too. When Harlen had been out of earshot, she’d muttered to her dog: “Looks like we both dodged the bullet.”

Lady just whimpered and put her paws over her snout.

“There there, pumpkin, I know.”

Her parents had insisted they stay the night, and considering this was the most she’d been fussed over in years—and that she’d get to see Rickon, Theon, and all the other dogs besides—she hadn’t objected.

Dinner had been something else. Her mother had pried over plans she didn’t yet have. Rickon had detailed the attack training for the latest batch of dogs he was helping with, between giving her awkward pats of commiseration over the whole _ruined your life_ thing. Theon had kissed her cheek once, then mostly talked with their father about Stark Plumbing & Electrical.

Ned Stark was a plumber, and though Theon had tried desperately to follow in his footsteps, he hadn’t quite had the stomach for clogged pipes. Instead, Ned had gotten him an apprenticeship with an electrician. When that had finished, Theon had gone into business with Ned, and they’d been making hand over fist since.

When that discussion was done, their father regaled them all with the nitty gritty details of Arya’s latest steps on her way to a gold medal. He wasn’t willing to hear of any outcomes otherwise—the man believed in their sister wholeheartedly.

He didn’t ask Sansa more than three questions the entire meal.

After dinner, she was allowed into the dog pen to have a dozen fluffy babies swarm over her and give her kisses. As far as her nights went, this wasn’t a bad one.

She went back to Cerwyn the next morning. While Beth was at work each day, she used her friend’s computer to look for jobs. Movers. Tried to figure out why her unemployment hadn’t kicked in. Exchanged emails with Ros. Searched for any news about the VFS.

There wasn’t much, and she found no mention of Jon. Her inbox stayed empty of his name.

She pulled up another blank email.

_I’m staying with my friend Beth in Cerwyn now. It’s like a sleepover every night…but I think I know which sleepover I preferred more, between you and me._

_I think about those nights a lot. The firelight. Your hands._

_Gods—ignore me._

_Lady and I got checked out by the docs, and all is well. I hope you and Ghost are well, too, and that Mormont isn’t working you too hard._

_I’ve started looking for a job, so wish me luck if you could._

_Be well. I know that you’re doing your best._

And sent it.

She returned to the job hunt. There was an appraiser job at Hightower she wasn’t qualified for; wrong historical period and a senior position besides. There was an Auction Assistant there too, and while that was more on the selling side…Hightower was so far away. In the end, she put both on the no-pile.

She found a buyer’s job at Buckler & Errol, but she’d never worked with the buyers, and it was in a time period outside her specialties. Manderly didn’t have a single opening outside operations. She didn’t bother with Lions or the Spider at all.

Her breath caught at the next turn. On page was a junior position in the archives at the House of Arryn. It was only half-similar to her last job, but she was good at both sorting and documenting historical minutiae. The system they used at Arryn was the same as Mockingbird. If she managed it, she would get her foot into a very prestigious door. Maybe even…

She was two years short of the minimum experience.

 _Bravery,_ she told herself.

She filled out her first application and hit send.

There was a job at a museum in the Saltpans, it was half tour guide, half backroom working under the curator there. But it was a very Targaryen heavy museum, and that _was_ her time period. It was very near to the Vale, too.

She put in an application.

A part-time historical editor was needed at a Dornish publishing house, but the position could work from anywhere. She filled that in as well.

A family in White Harbor just had their grandfather die, and his vast historical collection was in disarray. They needed someone on a six-month contract to identify and appraise all items for value. It was squarely in her area, but it wasn’t a career, merely a contract. Still though, it being in White Harbor…she entered that application too.

There was a multi-branch bank based in Redfort which was deep in the Vale. It was looking to add a curator for their private collection. It would be almost entirely art-based with few artifacts involved, but she’d already done corporate curation through Mockingbird. And this was _in_ _the Vale._ She couldn’t send her resume off fast enough.

And on it went. A week in, she hadn’t had any callbacks. It was a start though, and it was time to turn her attentions elsewhere.

Sansa Stark was going back to King’s Landing.

/~/~/~/

Lady wailed at being left at her parent’s house for all of five minutes, until one of her nieces bit her tail, and Lady barked and gave the pup chase.

“She’ll have a wonderful time.” Her mother assured, and Sansa was inclined to believe her. Lady adored being back at the kennels.

She wondered if she’d come back to Lady being in love with another dog…but no. Stark girls weren’t that faithless.

She and Beth were ready. There was a softball bat under the bins in the backseat. There were snacks in one of her father’s _out to the lake_ coolers, and they were ready and eager to go.

But her mother fretted. “Are you sure you don’t want anyone else with you? We can loan you Rickon.”

“What am I?” Her brother squawked. “Tupperware?”

Sansa shook her head. “We don’t have room for him. And I hired movers that will do all the packing. They’ll have it done and shipped in three days, I just need to go down and supervise.” And get her underwear and important documents beforehand, along with Lady’s things.

Beth was renting them motel rooms in her own name. Sansa was covering gas and meals, and a promised shopping trip along Silk Street. She wouldn’t spend another night in her apartment, no matter how much it hurt.

That part of her life was over.

Her mother and brother waved them goodbye. Lady was too busy playing to pay attention, and the most cheerful Sansa had seen her in weeks. Sansa wished she could say the same of herself as they piled into her new-used vehicle. SUV, four-wheel drive, snow tires all. She was never, ever, letting a crash like that happen again. Once was more than enough, and there’d be no Jon Snow to fish her out a ditch a second time.

The King’s Road welcomed them, all plowed clear from the latest storm. They passed the forests outside Winterfell then the Barrowlands to their west. They made Moat Cailin in good time and then into the Neck. The swamps were eerie and strange, but so fascinating to stare at as they skimmed by.

They ate snacks, then held hands and sang songs just like Beth promised. Her friend giggled. “It’s just like Secondary.”

“Me driving you everywhere, you baby without a license.”

“It’s hardly my fault you’re an old lady with your three extra years.”

“And there was that horrible whiny pop band you liked—”

“Don’t you tarnish Marillion that way!”

But once they were past the Twins—and Sansa’s bloody retelling of the Red Wedding that had Beth squealing—things quieted.

And Beth’s eyes followed that ever-curving road. “I think I’m jealous.”

That broke the asphalt’s hypnotism. “Of what?”

“Your fling you had with the Ranger.” The sun was falling, the gold of it gilding her friend so strangely. “It sounds like one of those romance novels we used to trade as kids. He rescues you, and then it’s love at first sight.”

“It wasn’t love at first sight.” Not quite, though it had been something so damn near. For her, at least.

“Are you getting back together?” Beth asked.

“We were never officially together.”

“Letting him tumble you on every surface in that cabin sounds pretty together to me.”

“Beth…there weren’t any promises.”

“And that stops you getting back with him…how? Sansa, you talk about him _so much_. If I have to hear one more time about how brave and wonderful and good with dogs he is, my ears will shrivel off. Good gods, babybun. Whenever it’s the future, though, you clam right up. I think…I really think he’s good for you. When you’re not moping, you talk about him and light up like New Year’s.”

She clutched the wheel for its steadiness. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. With the job or whenever I’m going. I just…I want him, I’m trying to make something work, but if I say it out loud…” Her throat wavered. Clogged. “Even if I go back there, there’s no guarantee that Jon will want…”

Beth touched her elbow softly. Made her voice cheery as could be. “He’d be a fool not to. We’re perfect catches, you and me.”

Sansa snorted.

“It’s true. And if you stumble over any other hot rangers while wooing back Mr. Sexy Forest Man, you should set me up. Don’t be a greedy shrew.”

“First come first serve.”

Beth gasped and threw a potato chip at her.

They traded off driving and made their motel at Darry that evening. There were two queen beds, but they shared one anyways to watch TV. It felt uncharitable of her, but she wished her bed partner was someone else. That the dogs were here. That there’d be snow falling gently outside, and nowhere to go but under the sheets.

To his hands cupping her, teasing her. Slotting together so perfectly in hers.

The light of the TV flickered; filmed Beth’s eyes a hazy blue. “Do you miss him?”

And it stole her breath. “Every day.”

/~/~/~/

The next morning, Sansa woke to Beth staring at her phone on the nightstand. Not Beth’s phone— _hers._

She mumbled: “Whazzit?”

“I think that dreamy forest ranger emailed you back? There’s this message popped up—”

Sansa shrieked and nearly knocked the phone off the nightstand. Beth shrieked as well and stumbled. “Sansa!”

“Sorry!” Her fingers were trembling. It took four tries to unlock the phone. It was Jon’s email address, and her heart near fluttered to see the words attached.

_Sansa,_

_Sorry it took me so long. Ghost and I have been in Ironoaks the past few weeks, ferrying supplies and trying to get a road clear to the town. I finally burnt out that chainsaw. My shoulders have been aching something fierce—I miss your magic fingers. You always made it easy to work another day._

_We had our first real SAR of the year. Somebody was hiking medicine to their grandparent’s cabin and got lost. Ghost made the find after 13 hours; he got all the jerky he wanted that night._

_I don’t think I’ve had a moment to rest, but getting to sit down and read your emails…that was all I needed. I’m glad you and Lady are okay, and I hope you’re having a great time with Beth. I know you’ll find a kickass job soon._

_Keep me posted. I want to keep hearing from you._

_And shit. Honey, don’t talk about my hands, cause I’ll think of having them on you. And I gotta sleep in a bunkroom with three other guys tonight. There are enough awkward moments around here without me adding to it by thinking of you in our bed._

_Gods—maybe you should ignore me too?_

_It’s getting late, and the other guys need to check in. I want everything to be good for you. Be safe, and I hope you’ll send back something soon._

_I’m thinking of you too._

Her eyes were burning, her cheeks, her thighs. She felt impossibly dizzy.

Beth whistled. “Did Ranger Snow write something dirty?”

Sansa gasped and clutched the phone to her chest. “No!”

“You’re red as a tomato.”

“No I’m not!”

“You’re going to achieve a heretofore unseen shade of horny.”

“Shut your mouth!” But she still scurried into the bathroom first. Shut the door, locked it. Felt rather faint as she read Jon’s email a second time, a third, all while sitting on the bathtub’s rim.

She hit reply.

_I won’t ever ignore you, Ranger Snow, but there’s no time to think of your hands or mouth or anything else. Beth is on the other side of our motel room—we started for KL yesterday. I’ve got movers to pack all my things, so we won’t be in the city for more than four days. We’re staying in another motel under Beth’s name while we’re there._

_Frankly, I have to figure things out at Mockingbird, too. My unemployment hasn’t come through yet. It’s probably some stupid paperwork thing I need to sort with HR._

_I wish you were here, and not just for the motel beds. The Red Keep is beautiful even in the winter. I wish I could show you all the secret little nooks I found. The prettiest spots to see the sunrise. And I think you’d like a tour of the Hall of Arms—who doesn’t like a sword with a good tale behind it? Of some knight who saved his lady?_

_You’re my knight, you know. You always will be._

_Give Ghostie a pat from me for doing his job so well. And I demand he be given at least three kisses; I won’t be bargained down._

_Keep up your own good work. I never said it properly when we were together, but I want you to know how much I admire the job you do. The way you help people. All the risks you take without even hesitating._

_I hope you get that road cleared, but don’t overwork yourself. I’ll tell you all about KL that next few days if you don’t mind the clutter in your inbox._

_Jon, please take care of yourself._

And that was it. She sent it on and let her phone fall to her lap. The highway was humming outside these walls. Beth was moving around quietly setting out her clothes.

Jon was so far from her, and she was no closer to getting back to him. Her inbox was empty but for this message. No inquires yet, no callbacks.

Just the sting.

It was a moment of weakness, but it was a moment well deserved. So for that little while, Sansa put her head against the tiles and yearned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was wondering...I think about three weeks went by in this chapter. Give or take.
> 
> I might change this later, but for now, Stark kid ages for the curious:  
> Theon 30  
> Robb 29  
> Sansa 26  
> Arya 22  
> Bran 20  
> Rickon 16
> 
> Theon was never formally adopted or anything, but he counts. Oh, and Jon is 29 if any of your forgot. (Everyone: why haven't you mentioned Robb or Bran yet??? Answer: ...reasons. And also narrative efficiency, because they don't matter right now.)
> 
> I know a lot of characters got introduced this chapter, but that was rather deliberate. The cabin was a cloister, but that's gone now. The real world is flooding back in.
> 
> Also me @ GRRM: LET GIRLS HAVE REAL FRIENDS FOR MORE THAN TWO MINUTES. AND ALSO LET LESBIANS AND/OR BISEXUALS EXIST WHO ARE NOT THERE JUST FOR YOUR CREEPY TITILLATION, GEORGE. 
> 
> Now, I also talked with some of you in the comments last chapter, so I figured I'd mention it here. Remember how I pegged the end chapter count at 20? Scratch that and put it at...21 or 22. Maybe. Ya girl did herself a sprawl again. Fool me to think I could wrap up most of Sansa's many, many plot lines, in a single chapter.
> 
> Well, I could, but then it'd just be time skips and summarized cliff notes. And who wants that???
> 
> Anyhow, tune in next time for: ...this is rather embarrassing. I'm not actually sure. It's either a) Sansa's KL chapter, or b) a Jon chapter of his time after their parting and his own emotional journey. We'll find out once I write it, so stay tuned!


	18. Stepping Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor warnings for this chapter. They're at the start of the end note.
> 
> King's Landing, here we go!

“Are you sure we can’t stop at Hayford Castle?”

Beth glared at her from the driver’s seat. “We both agreed there was no time in the schedule to stop at every castle along the King’s Road.”

“Damnit.” Sansa muttered, knowing that she’d agreed to it, but still absolutely bitter about that fact. Hayford Castle was beautiful, and one of the most intact medieval structures left in the Crownlands short of the Red Keep. It had miraculously avoided Daenerys the Destroyer’s wrath which had seen most other castles in the region burned to the ground.

The Red Keep had only survived because that mad Targaryen had been too busy immolating Flea Bottom in an attempt to murder and usurp nephew, the last true heir of their house, Aegon Targaryen VI. Near a hundred-thousand denizens of King’s landing were reported to have been killed in the slaughter. When the counterattack had decimated her Dothraki Screamers, it was claimed that a mob had converged on Daenerys before she could escape and ripped her limb from limb.

Sansa opened her mouth.

Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Are you about to tell me something horrible and murderous?”

She paused. “…but what if it’s neat?”

“I’m not falling for that a fourth time.”

“Boo.”

Beth just rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you tell me something nice for once?”

A tyrant being toppled _was_ nice. Still. “I can tell you about the Tourney of High Summer at Rosby?”

Beth wiggled. “Oooh, I like the sound of that. Share.”

So Sansa did. That carried them all the way to the overlook at Hayford Castle where they’d trade seats for the last time. Sansa doubted very much Beth was ready for the full contact sport that was driving in King’s Landing.

Just as they were pulling into the lot, Sansa’s phone rang. Her heart leapt. The first thought was foolish—that it was Jon somehow. She dismissed that notion quickly. He would have told her in his email if that had been the plan.

Perhaps it was a job callback?

She snatched her phone up, found an unfamiliar number, and opened the line. “Hello?”

“Sansa Stark?” A woman asked.

And ice dropped down her spine. For one moment, she was there again. The ravine, the car slowly growing dark as the snow drifted down. Cold. Colder. _Colder._

Beth’s hand was suddenly in hers. The car had stopped. “Sansy?”

Over the line, the woman pressed: “I don’t know if you remember me—”

But Sansa would never forget. “Shae?”

And recognition flared in Beth’s eyes. Her mouth dropped open.

“Yes.” Shae answered warmly. “It’s so good to hear from you in better circumstances. Do you have a few minutes you could spare for me? If that’s no trouble.”

She blinked away the snow drifting like static in her eyes. “Gods—yes. I have plenty of time for you. I never got to say thanks.”

“That’s alright.” Shae promised.

“No.” It wasn’t. “Thank you _so much_. You saved my life. You were the reason Ranger Snow found me. When I was in my car, having you there was the only reason I didn’t go to pieces.”

“Sansa…that means a great deal to me.” And Shae’s next breath came shuddery. “I was so glad to hear from Commander Mormont you made it out okay. That’s all we wanted.”

The car was still too small. She stepped out. Beth did, too. But instead of following her, Beth flittered her fingers once and then went farther on to gaze at the castle. Gave Sansa space.

“Thank you.” She repeated, and breathed this warm southern air. Grounded herself. “I’m sorry—what can I do for you?”

“You don’t have to do anything for me. I just wanted to say from us here at Seastar, that we’re still so very, very sorry about what happened to you. We want to make it right.”

Sansa made an affirming noise. Kicked at some gravel. Breathed deep.

And Shae’s voice slipped nearer. “Now Sansa, from here on, this is just me talking to you. Not Seastar, me. Understand?”

That brought her fully alert. “Yes?”

And Shae hummed. “It’s law in the Vale that after a review period, all complaints made against a Kingdom body are public until they’re brought up at the Civilian Oversight Committee. Yours went public today.”

Her stomach dropped. “Is that…bad?”

“No.” Shae answered. “But it’s been noticed that you haven’t filed a lawsuit yet. Whether you do that is entirely up to your discretion, but Seastar is aware that the only person with proper standing to sue over what happened is you.”

She couldn’t see where this was aiming. “Okay?”

“Hmmmm.” Shae ruminated. “Let me put it this way. The complaint goes to two bodies, Internal Affairs at the Arryn Troopers, and Civilian Oversight. The Troopers will rubber stamp themselves. The Civilian Oversight board will, at most, perhaps request the firing of a few officers and recommend a policy review. There are many people I’ve spoken to who believe you would receive greater restitution—and make the point of your complaint _much_ more strongly—if you filed suit.”

A very dim light was beginning to dawn. “You think I should.” And it wasn’t only Shae that thought it.

“That’s up to you.” But Shae slanted in. “And if you do, I’ll be forwarding the number of a lawyer. You may have heard of her—Elia Nymeros Martell of Martell & Martell?”

Sansa _had_ , and probably not for the reasons Shae thought. Oberyn Martell and his antics outside the courtroom had certainly made the rags even up in King’s Landing. But once upon a time, a decade before Sansa had even entered the work force, Elia Martell had gone after Mockingbird Auction House for laundering of looted artifacts.

She’d done it on behalf of the People’s Republic of Mantarys after their cataclysmic civil war. From what Sansa had heard through the grapevine, Mr. Baelish had feigned shock and horror, and then done some very fast tapdancing. He’d returned a number of artifacts, then made some donations until the lawsuit had petered down into being settled out of court.

It was agreed among staff that Elia hadn’t gotten the pound of flesh she’d wanted, and Mr. Baelish had dodged a very dangerous Martell-shaped bullet.

She chewed on that. “I have.”

“Excellent. You should call them. Today. Ms. Martell’s schedule is _very_ open.”

She’d heard that tone used at the auction house plenty. This wasn’t idle speculation. “I see. Thank you very much for sharing your advice. Do you have my email address?”

“Oh, yes.” Shae agreed, and her humor curled darkly. “It’s already on file. Good hunting.”

/~/~/~/

Her first instinct was the same as it always was now. Tell Jon, ask his advice, maybe even get a hug or two before forging on. But to her ever-increasing frustration, there was no Jon to go to.

_Gods damn us._

And as this seemed a time-critical juncture, she explained it all to Beth back inside the car. Her friend let out a strangled gasp. “You get to talk to Elia Martell?? Have her represent you in court?”

Sansa flicked her eyes off the road to see Beth looking at her like she’d just announced they were going to a surprise Marillion concert. “Why does this matter to you?”

“What rock have you been living under?!” Beth railed. “Dornish Court TV is _public._ Ms. Martell dresses like a goddess and makes grown men cry in open court! Open court, Sansa!”

“Okay.”

“I want to be her when I grow up!”

“You’re twenty-three.”

“There’s still time!” And Beth grabbed her by the elbow. Wheedled. “You have to let me listen to the call. Please facetime her.”

“I’ll call her. No facetime.”

“Right now.”

“I’m _driving.”_

“I’ll hold the phone. You could be talking to Elia Martell right this very moment, and _you’re not._ It’s like I don’t even know you anymore!”

“Oh my gods.” Sansa groaned. “As soon as we get to KL, alright?”

Beth stuck out a lip. “How much farther is that?”

And Sansa jerked her chin forwards. “Look.”

And Beth looked. The curve ended; the trees split open. King’s Landing came. Golden spires, glittering prisms, ancient walls, cutting edges. The loveliest jewel in all the Kingdoms, sprawled from river to sea.

Beth’s gasp was softer this time. Awed; snared so completely as Sansa had once been snared. Gods. She’d been so happy here once, not that long ago.

She gripped the steering wheel tight.

Somewhere, someday, she promised herself—she’d be just as happy and more.

/~/~/~/

They made the motel past eleven with the sun going higher. They wouldn’t head to her apartment until the following morning—they’d both agreed to limit their exposure there, and not alert anyone that Sansa was in KL until they had to.

So on to the motel they went, and Beth did not wait even a split second for the door to shut behind them. “Call.”

“We could go on our shopping spree first?”

Beth was a woman completely unimpressed. “ _Call.”_

“For the love of—fine. But only if you’re quiet.” The email had come, and the number was in. It was fine—it wasn’t like she was about to talk to one of the most famous lawyers in the Kingdoms, or open both barrels on a Vale-wide police force.

She put the call on speakerphone. Let it ring. A man picked up, Dornish accent so crisp: “Elia Nymeros Martell’s office, how may I direct you?”

Beth squeaked. Sansa shot her a glare, and Beth clapped her hands over her mouth but then shuffled even closer to the phone.

She swallowed. “Yes—umm. My name is Sansa Stark, I was wondering if—”

But the man cut over. “You’ve been expected. Please hold for one moment.”

She blinked a few times, bewildered. The line clicked, then clicked a second time. Twenty seconds of dead air, and then there was a woman. A voice. Coiling; so venomously _sweet._ “Sansa Stark, how very lovely for you to be calling.”

Beth made a shrilling noise behind her hands, and Sansa didn’t need three guesses for who this was. “Ms. Martell, thank you for making time for us today.”

“The pleasure’s mine.” Elia answered with all the sinuous curl of silk in water. “Are you with someone else right now?”

“My friend Beth is also on the line.”

Beth squeaked again. “Hi Ms. Martell! I’m a big fan!” And then flinched like she’d been stabbed. _Oh gods._ Beth mouthed.

But Elia just answered warmly: “That is always an honor to hear. What do you do for a living, Beth?”

Beth was shaking. “I’m a Nutritionist. I didn’t have the head for law school—but I’m a big court follower. That settlement you won for the Wolfswood after the Ironborn scandal is still greatly appreciated back home.”

“That was a difficult one.” Elia agreed. “And I’m very pleased the North still recalls it.”

 _The North Remembers,_ they mouthed to each other. It was an ancient adage. Deathless.

Elia pushed on. “Now Beth, I’m sure you know that for attorney-client privilege to be in effect, you can’t be in the room while Sansa and I speak. So if you could…?”

“I’ll get right out of your hair!” Beth hurried. “I’m out the door! But before I go, I just wanted to say last month on the Manwoody case, that amber dress you wore on cross examination made you look like an angel!”

Mortification struck Sansa like a runaway train.

But Elia Martell seemed delighted. “Thank you, dear. Off you go.”

Beth, cheeks pink, just made a noise like a baby bird and then scurried from the room.

Sansa felt like she should apologize for her friend. She also felt like it’d be betraying her friend to apologize. If Beth could put up with her pining over Jon for weeks on end, then surely—

But Elia needed no explanation: “Let’s get down to the nuts and bolts, shall we? Are you going to retain me for the afternoon?”

Shae had already explained this in the email. Sansa fumbled with her phone, then used the online account she’d had cued to send a frankly paltry number of stags over. “Money’s sent.”

“Good; that’s just for the consult fee today. If I take on your case, all of my payment is contingent on the settlement you’ll receive. Now tell me everything, and spare no detail.”

And Sansa did. Joffrey, Lannisters, Lady, the crash, Mockingbird, her job, the Troopers. Jon, but only a little. Forward and backwards. Four times over. Her complaint. Jon’s complaint. Mormont’s complaint.

“Let’s table the Vale for the moment.” Elia decided. “Have you sent off Ranger Snow’s report to Animal Control?”

“Yes?” She answered hesitantly. “First thing I did when I got to Cerwyn. Should I not have…?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” And the long moment Elia spent considering that was nerve wracking. “It cuts off certain options. I could have interceded, but it’s too late for that. We’ll have to completely forgo any mention of Lady in the complaint. We don’t want to be seen as lying about _anything_ that happened to you. If you say Lady’s dead, and some private investigator finds out your dead dog is still frolicking about…”

She hadn’t even though of that. Her stomach wriggled. “I’m sorry.”

“What’s done is done.” Elia sighed. “I can’t say you were entirely wrong. I’ve had the displeasure of meeting Cersei Lannister on multiple occasions. The farther you keep that woman out of your life, the better. Still, for all our sake’s including Ranger Snow, keep your dog out of the public eye. Change her name and don’t put her on social media. Frankly, as soon as a I get off this call with you, delete everything you have online. You need to be a stone wall for this, Sansa.”

It sat ill on her, but those last words gave her hope. “You’re taking my case?”

“I am.” Elia answered. “It’s a strong one, and I did a little legwork before you called. With the lawsuits already coming out of the Gates of the Moon—with people dying no less—the Troopers are going to be feeling the pressure now. Frankly, the whole Kingdom response for the storm is being looked on poorly, and the Troopers are not covering themselves in glory. The more tarnished they are in the public eye by trial, the more predisposed the jury pool will be to you. You’re young, good looking, articulate—” How did Elia Martell already know what she looked like? “—you’ll come off well. And we may not even reach that point. The government may feel pressed to settle early and settle _well.”_

“Oh.” And she tried to piece her scattered thoughts together. They were difficult to track.

But Elia did not wait for her to gather them. “At this point, don’t talk to anyone about the case. I understand there may be some…private communications going on.”

“Can I not—” And her throat clicked. “Can I not talk to Ranger Snow?”

Elia lingered there. “As long as it’s not about the case. But Miss Stark…” Another silence. “Is there something going on there that I should know about?”

 _Everything_ , her lawyer had asked. And that’s what he was. “Jon Snow and I…I care about him. A lot. And when we were at the cabin, a relationship of sorts happened. We’re not seeing each other now, but I’d hoped that…if I got a job near him—I’d hoped.”

“Alright.” The woman answered slowly. “There are other complaints in the works, so…at the very _earliest,_ I wouldn’t expect serious movement to happen towards trial until next autumn. Discovery will begin in the summer. I won’t say to cut communication or stay away from Ranger Snow, but I am saying if you enter into a relationship with him, they will try to leverage that into discrediting you both. It will be a chip against us, but there’s a lot moving on the board right now. I’m not saying no, but I am asking that you be discreet, and perhaps suggest to the Ranger that he stop contacting you from his business email and get a personal one. And if anything happens on this _Ranger Snow_ route—please discuss it with me first, alright?”

“Okay.” She swallowed butterflies, bees, a thousand stinging wasps. “I just…thank you.”

“It’s fine. Now, remember, don’t speak to _anyone_. Reporters, busybodies, anyone from the government or the Troopers. If anyone tries to contact you or intimidate you, reach out to me immediately. I don’t expect trouble on that end since I’ll be making contact through the lawsuit, but keep that in mind.”

It happened then; that memory back on her like a wraith. Jon, that night in the study. Eyes blown black. Hands cold and shaking. The truth. The scars.

_For the Watch._

Her pulse pounded. “Ms. Martell—I don’t want the Troopers to retaliate against Jon either. Is there anything that you can do?”

“Officially, no.” But her words curled like smoke. “Unofficially, I’ll put the fear of god in them. If they make an issue, I’ll send Oberyn to represent him. I promise you, if they want to play hardball, they will not _like_ the stakes my brother plays for.”

And Sansa screwed her eyes shut. “ _Thank you.”_

Elia just hummed. At least right now, one burden had been lifted. Jon had been safe just last night. Doing alright; helping people like he'd been called to. And she had little doubt now the fear Elia Martell could put into men.

He’d be _safe_.

Elia clucked. “And now for the sticky wicket of Petyr. It’s a shame you already quit. Rumors and speculation, no matter how much I believe them, won’t get you anywhere in a wrongful termination suit.”

“I didn’t expect it to.” And she sighed. “I just want my unemployment and to move on. That’s all.”

“A reasonable outlook. Call me if they give you trouble. Petyr has all sorts of nasty tricks up his sleeve, and I’m not going to let any of them catch you, alright?”

That buoyed her. “Alright.”

“Excellent. And one more thing before I go…I did some legwork when I realized you were involved with the Lannisters through Joffrey. After I asked around their crowd, I heard something rather ghoulish that finally makes sense.”

That made her uneasy. “And what’s that?”

“Have you heard of a man named Meryn Trant?”

And Sansa shivered _bodily_. “One of Joffrey’s friends. I didn’t like him.” Hated, in fact. Boorish and mean and with eyes that stripped people.

“No one does, he’s a nasty piece of work. A few weeks ago he was admitted to hospital. It seems he didn’t know animal bites could be infectious. He took so long to get treatment, one of his arms had to be amputated at the elbow.”

A gasp ripped out of her. The room sparked and wavered. Meryn Trant. Meryn Trant with his beefy hands and filthy looks and vicious mouth, watching in the dark beyond her door—

Jon had been right. He’d been _right._

“Miss Stark? Sansa?”

Her thoughts clawed inside her skull _._ “Trant was outside my house.”

“I suspect so.” Elia answered gently. “Though that will be difficult to prove, especially if you want to keep up the ruse that Lady is dead.”

“I do.” Her throat was burning. “I just want them to go _away.”_

“Then I can’t offer you a better plan then the one you already have. But I am going to place a call to Tywin Lannister.”

A chasm broke open up inside her. Sucked her down and had her asking anxiously: “Won’t that make things worse?”

“It won’t. Tywin isn’t an idiot—and this entire thing against you has been pure idiocy _._ His grandson gets bitten by his ex-girlfriend’s dog, and a few months later one of his thuggish friends loses an arm to an infected dog bite? He already knows. Cersei and Joffrey are petty, venal, and about as subtle as a brick through a window. Tywin and I…we’ve come to an understanding, over the years. I’ll make it clear to him that I’m watching. He won’t want the trouble I’ll bring over a trivial grudge that isn't even his.”

She had only met Tywin Lannister once, at some gala she’d begged Joffrey to take her with to. Tywin had been well cultured, well attired, and well sought. The entire room had revolved around him. A single gesture from him had cast entire corporations asunder.

When Joffrey had introduced them, he’d looked on her with eyes colder than the bleakest winter night.

She felt too small; like a sailboat being buffeted by warships. The smallest piece on the board, and so easily cast aside. She felt like a child when she asked: “If you’re sure?”

“I promise this will go away.” And Elia Martell sounded so confident in that. “There’s a security firm I’ve worked with in KL. I’m having them send a car. Two men, both armed. They’ll follow from a discreet distance while you’re in the city. Consider them a freebie.”

Her mouth worked in useless horror. Croaked: “When will they be here?”

“An hour.” Elia answered. “And for your own safety, don’t ever let on that you know what the Lannisters did. You’re going to get your things and your unemployment, and then you’re going to leave the city and never look back.”

/~/~/~/

She wanted Jon. She wanted Jon. She wanted _Jon._

/~/~/~/

But Jon wasn’t here.

/~/~/~/

Beth had waved at their guards when they arrived, then came back to Sansa to curl with her on the bed. Dried her cheeks. Tried: “It’ll be okay. C’mon, let’s go shopping.”

She was scared, but she didn’t want to say it. “Beth…”

But her friend spoke in a voice both fierce and steady. “They don’t get to ruin your life anymore. Let’s go and do all the touristy things you promised me, and have fun. You told me once Queen Sansa came back to King’s Landing with her head held high. You can do the same.”

It was true, and it was something that no one could do for her. She sniffled, then slowly levered herself up.

_Bravery._

And when Beth smiled, she smiled back.

/~/~/~/

They shopped on Silk Street in the bargain racks of leftover summer lines. They got heels, dresses, and cute sweaters. They stared at the even more decadently clad women as they strode by and coveted their beauty.

They ate at her favorite café on Baker’s street up on the patio amongst the flowers. Gentle. Cloistered. Sharing mille-feuille and breathing the winter camellias.

They went on a two-person walking tour around the Red Keep walls with Sansa as their guide. They caught a play in the park, then went to her favorite Lyseni restaurant in the city. The drinks were heavy, the appetizers were to die for, and the entire center of the restaurant was a dancefloor dedicated to the Perfumed Tango.

She and Beth had been in each other’s arms, giggling as Beth learned the steps. When a few men had approached them, she’d sent Beth off to keep learning in a handsome stranger’s arms, while politely declining for herself.

Theirs was not the embrace that she wanted. It never would be.

The guards stayed at a discreet distance through it all.

Beth returned breathless and jubilant, and they ate like royalty. Drank like it, too. They laughed, and the night was nothing but candlelight and joy. Shared dishes and lipstick on glass rims. Full bellies. Topped up hearts.

Beth gasping: “We look so _good._ We need a picture, come here!”

They clasped together, grinning for Beth’s phone as it wavered drunkenly over their heads. It took five tries to get a clear shot.

Beth scrutinized it. “Gods, look at you and your cleavage. You’re gorgeous. You need to send this to Ranger Sexy Snowpants immediately.”

She faltered. “I’m not supposed to email him before he gets a private account.”

“And how is he supposed to know that if you don’t tell him??”

Sansa hiccupped. “Oh! I guess it’s okay then. But isn’t that picture a bit…thirst trappy?”

“He deserves to be thirst trapped. Make him remember what’s he’s missing, Sansy. Keep that man on the _hook.”_

She very much wanted to keep Jon Snow snared. Wished he was here so she could lean into him; find his mouth. Steal his breath. “Okay.” And Beth sent over the picture. Sansa was giggling again, elbowing Beth away to keep her from seeing the clumsily typed words.

_Look at us! One happy night in KL at last._

_I got a lawyer today named Elia Martell—have you ever heard of her? She’s amazing and the scariest person I’ve ever met. Things are going to be happening soon. There’ll be a lawsuit at the Troopers, so please be careful. You know why._

_I can’t really say more—Elia told me not to. And we're not supposed to talk about the case. But she told me to tell you, to stop emailing me on your work account. Apparently government employees don’t need a warrant to have their emails accessed? They could use it against us, she said, if they find out that we had a relationship._

_That I could have…I don’t know. Tricked you into filing a complaint with my womanly wiles? Who knows what they’ll say._

_Email me back when you have a new account. Also, I need you to know it’s a crime you haven’t sent me Ghostie pictures yet. You should. I need them._

_…probably because some other bad stuff happened. You were right about the man in the woods. Ms. Martell has some security guys following us while we’re here, but I hate it. I loved it here so much before, and those monsters ruined it. Neither my horrible ex nor his mum got what they wanted, but I hate that they managed that much._

_I keep thinking that I want to go home, but I can’t. Then I think that I want to be with you, but I can’t do that either._

_I miss you. I wish you were here. Things are always so less scary when you’re around._

_I’m sorry, it seems like I’m sad-drunk emailing you at this point. Be careful. I hope you’ll write back soon._

She wasn’t giggling by the end of it. Beth moaned: “Nooooooooo. You’re sad again. Stop that!”

“I can’t help it.” But she still sent the email off. “I miss Jon and everything sucks.”

“At least you’re admitting it now.” And then Beth pushed a glass in front of her. “Now enough thinking—only drinking! It can all hurt tomorrow.”

/~/~/~/

And hurt it did, but Sansa still got up at 7AM to wash and dress. Put on her makeup. Still no job callbacks. No messages from Jon.

The world was an unfair place.

Beth lifted her blankets, eyes slitted. “Do we have to?”

“Movers are at my apartment in two hours.”

Her friend groaned. “Ugh.” And let the blankets fall back on her face. “You shouldn’t have let the bartender talk me into that fishbowl.”

“You talked yourself into that fishbowl. Up!” And then she tumbled Beth out of bed like a raccoon from a trash can. Beth skittered and shrieked just the same.

/~/~/~/

Beth went through her apartment with softball bat in hand. It’d nearly given their security men conniptions.

“I didn’t make the All Star Team three years running for nothing!” She'd hollered.

But nothing and no one was there. It was undisturbed.

They packed Sansa’s private things, and then the movers arrived and shooed them away. With nowhere else to be, they spent another day doing touristy things. The Hill of Rhaenys. The art installation at Cobbler’s Park. The little museum in the Sept of Ashes, which stood where the Great Sept of Baelor had once burned.

Beth made her promise they’d go to the Red Keep for a full day—let Sansa show off where she’d studied, and then go on the world famous tour of _Queen Sansa’s Footsteps._ Sansa had gone on that tour a hundred times, and she’d go on it a hundred more if she could. Her friend had only the faintest idea what she was in for.

But that was for their fourth and final day. After placing a call to Ros that afternoon, it was time: Sansa was off to Mockingbird.

/~/~/~/

Ros embraced her at the employee entrance. “Look at you!” It was the first time the woman had ever done that; Ros wasn’t the huggy sort.

Sansa eagerly returned the embrace. “I’m so sorry for all the trouble.”

“Considering what you went through, I got the least of it. C’mon, I got your desk packed up, and a few girls want to talk to you before HR steals you.”

They linked arms, and Sansa followed the woman as she had so many days before. One guard would wait for her outside. The other had gone off with Beth to a food fair on the other side of the city.

The cool embrace of Mockinbird washed over. Hushed. Dark stone, clean lines, glass and steel. Subtle hints of mint green. It seemed alien now. This might be the last time she ever stepped into this building. It was strange how easily some places were left behind, never to be seen again.

How quickly life changed.

She asked quietly: “Do you have any idea what’s going on with HR?”

Ros answered in an equally hushed tone. “They refused to speak to me about it. But a resignation letter apparently wasn’t enough. Just give them a good shove—they’re all pushovers here.”

She almost snorted but managed to stifle it. “Alright. Now more importantly: anything good come in while I was gone?”

Ros clasped a hand over hers. “Miss Stark, do I have some _lovely_ pieces to show you. Right this way.”

And gorgeous those pieces were. She poured lovingly over each with a new pair of gloves that she had absolutely never touched Jon Snow’s bare skin with. Though _gods_ , even thinking of that had her cheeks heating up. Her thighs trembling.

The fantasy was a lovely distraction as she reached the last artifact. A bracelet from the first century of the Targaryen Occupation, worn by the Lady Elinor Costayne of King Maegor’s famous Black Brides. She picked it up gently and listened to the rubies tinkle together as she held it under the lights.

It broke her heart that this would be the last time. It stirred some emptiness in her—carved a hollow behind her ribs. She wondered if she’d ever fill that place again.

But the past was done, and she could only learn and move from it.

_Choose your friends wisely. Don’t give in to fear. Be brave._

She set the bracelet carefully back in its box. She looked on it only a moment longer before sliding it shut.

Out in the halls she met a dozen of her coworkers. All seemed genuinely sorry to see her go. A few asked questions as to why, but she demurred them; staying with the story of a family emergency and explaining no further. She gave Cass and Bella especially tight hugs for writing her such glowing recommendations.

Cass had just cried. Bella had smiled and gripped her arms. “You’ll do good out there, I know it.”

And then quite unhappily it was up to HR. It was just as much of a horror as she expected. Missing forms. Unfilled forms. Round and round the arguments went. Had she checked this box? Had she filed her last health insurance compliance? Was she gainfully employed now? Was she keeping to her non-compete agreement?

The non-compete could barely hold water. To everything else, she was handed a weighty stack of papers.

The gray-haired woman gave her a gimlet eye. “There’s a conference room off the next hall. You can use it for those.” And sent the stack a disgusted look.

Sansa walled up her contempt. “Thank you.” And headed on before she started spitting venom. She shut the door to the windowless room, took a pen from her purse, and began the arduous form-filling process. Though gods, were there a lot of them. Enough to make her eyes cross. Twenty minutes into it, and the stack never seemed to shrink. They were stonewalling her.

Frustration mounting, she went digging for her phone and then dialed in Elia’s private number. If they thought they could put her off this easily—

There was a click. Open air.

The conference door came open. “Sansa, a moment?”

And her heart plummeted to her gut. Petyr Baelish was standing there: dark suit, half a smirk, and already shutting the door behind himself. Low and smooth as oil on water. And she no longer trusted the glitter of those eyes.

Sansa placed her phone back onto the table. A cold sweat broke as she stood. “I’m not sure—”

“This will only take a moment.” He assured so generously. “I was sorry to hear that you were leaving us. You were one of my rising stars, Sansa. It’s a shame about that _family emergency.”_

She didn’t like that tone. She didn’t like any bit of this. “It is. I’m just filling some forms for HR, did you need anything, Mr. Baelish?”

“Just a goodbye…and some idle curiosity. We’d so love to have you back, is that emergency clearing up anytime soon?”

Her heart was running like a rabbit being chased by a hawk. “It has. But I think it best that I move on now. There are other opportunities I'm considering pursuing.”

“But none that pay so well, I suspect. And our health plan is nothing to sneeze at.” And he crossed the room to lean against the table. He was less than an arm’s length from her.

She wanted to recoil—but not yet.

“You’ve been very generous.” She agreed.

“And I can continue to be.” And his eyes slipped slowly down her. “You haven’t been technically fired yet, my dear. You could come right back on, no fuss, no muss. We could even talk about a raise over dinner tonight.”

A knot clenched in her gut. “I’m sorry.” She said. “But I’m not interested in staying on. I also have a friend in the city I made plans with, so I must decline.”

“Nonsense.” He answered, and then leaned close. No taller than her, but taking up space _._ Taking it like he had the _right_. “You have a passion for the subject, sweetling. A _hunger._ You’d be wasted anywhere else. We both know with how elitist the other Houses are; you couldn’t possibly find another job that would give you what I can. You have a bright future here, Sansa. You only have to reach out and take it.”

“By going to dinner with you?” She snapped, and for the first time there was anger. _Shoot him,_ Jon had said, and she pictured it then. Loud and red and violent, and she’d never been so fucking _angry_. “I’ll pass, Mr. Baelish. I only want my unemployment.”

“Paperwork can be such a bother.” He tisked. “Getting lost and running through so many hands. You might be waiting a while on that—you didn’t resign through the proper channels.”

“I did.” She corrected harshly. “And I want what’s owed me.”

“And I want all sorts of things.” Petyr remarked carelessly. “And I think we could both be more successful if we lent each other a helping hand.” And then he did—try to lend her a hand, right on her hip.

She flew backwards. Her every word was punctuated with rage: “Don’t. Touch. _Me._ ”

A crackle. The room breaking—open static spilling from the phone upon that table. Petyr jerked backwards.

A voice came. Lightning pouring thunder. “ _I think that’s enough.”_

The line was open, had been open from the moment Petyr Baelish walked into the room—at least she’d hoped.

He snarled. “What is this?”

“ _You never change, do you? Oh, you little fool_.”

And Mr. Baelish went gray as curdled milk. “Is this some kind of joke? I’m warning you—”

 _“Petyr.”_ She cooed. _“It’s Elia. Did you miss me?”_

And Sansa watched the world fall and fall and _break,_ right onto Petyr Baelish’s head.

It split him wide.

Animal panic. Naked sweat. Him stumbling: “Listening in on personal conversations is illegal eavesdropping—”

Elia cooed: _“You interrupted me and my client first, Petyr. I’m going to love playing this tape before a jury.”_

He swayed on his feet. “The Crownlands is a two party consent state—”

_“But Dorne isn’t. Oh, my dear, sweet Petyr. I knew you’d give me a second chance someday. We’re going to be trapped in all sorts of rooms together very soon. You won’t be able to get away from me, even though you’ll desperately wish you could. Don’t you love karma, sweetling? Perhaps we can lend each other a helping hand.”_

He opened his mouth, floundered, then without a single further word fled bodily from the room.

Her breath escaped her in one great rush. Adrenaline was throbbing. She remembered an avalanche; remembered Jon pinning her to that tree. 

But the collapse was in this room, and she had saved herself.

The colors were too bright. The world too narrow.

“ _Sansa, take pictures of the room and then go. Quickly. Go get yourself a nice stiff drink and some ice cream, and don’t answer any calls from your former employer. Understand?”_

She counted breaths. Shook down to her toes. “Understood.”

_“Are there others?”_

And she knew what was being asked. “There are.”

_“And who would know their names?”_

“Ros—my mentor. I think she’d know most of them.”

And Elia answered like a knife sinking in: _“Then why don’t you give me Miss Ros’ number? I’m sure she and I have a great deal to discuss.”_

/~/~/~/

Her hands were shaking. The security suit was at the other end of the bar. She had that stiff drink, ice cream already in it, and her phone was in her hand.

Trembling fingers. Tears in her eyes.

Anger in the belly.

_It wasn’t an HR thing. Baelish was holding my unemployment up. He tried to come on to me—but I had Elia on the line and she recorded everything. I guess I’m in another lawsuit now. Fuck. I’m so angry, I haven’t stopped shaking for the last hour._

_I tried everything to avoid this. I bombed my career on the spot, and it still happened anyways. Why is life like this? Is it me? I keep trying to tell myself it’s not, but I have to wonder now._

_Men ruin everything. Not you—but all the rest._

_I hate this city. I hate it. I just want to go home._

_One more day, and then we’re gone._

_I’m sorry for dumping this on you._

She shouldn’t send it. Knew it; not something this ugly and grasping and needy.

Her finger hit the arrow and sent it spiraling off.

It seemed she’d always need too much.

The phone went face down onto the bar top. She took another drink, chocolate and dark and saccharine, and so much alcohol it makes her shudder on the way down.

Sense memory. Shivering. Jon and that bourbon on his tongue. Swaying and giggling. His mouth so hot on hers.

Her drink was cold. No afterglow.

One more day, just one more.

/~/~/~/

And then it would just be another day trying to restart her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: mentions dog bites, infected wounds, and an amputation. Also, a boss coming on to a subordinate and sexual harassment at work (kinda).
> 
> On a more cheerful note: I also want to be Elia Martell when I grow up. We are all Beth on this blessed day. We stan one (1) Dornish lawyerly lady. I'm sure Ms. Martell has a fanatic internet following filled with pictures of her rad outfits and clips of her making grown men cry.
> 
> Now let me provide you all with a Sansa-translation.
> 
> Outside-Sansa: A relationship of sorts happened.  
> Inside-Sansa: We fucked like bunnies and I want to have his babies!!!!
> 
> Oh also:  
> Lannister arms: -2  
> Lady: +2
> 
> GET REKT.
> 
> Lol, anyhow, notes. If it wasn't obvious, the whole introducing Sansa to Elia was entirely orchestrated by Seastar who is still super pissed at the Troopers. They just back-doored it through Shae. It's also why Elia was willing to consult with Sansa for a tiny pile of money. In real life, it's very common for lawyers of these types to not charge fees (except for the initial retainer), but take a portion of settlement at the end. Which can be anywhere from 25-40% of the pot. Trust me, fronting all the costs is not done out of the goodness of their hearts. There's a reason some Tort lawyers are insanely rich. If you get a multi-million dollar settlement, and are taking 33% off the top...
> 
> Note; not everything in this story is getting solved neatly. Because Sansa decided on the "fake Lady's death" plan, it pretty much means she can't do anything to the Lannisters without inviting scrutiny. And with how rich and petty and violent they are, it's probably better that she just fade from view and let them think they won. No lawsuit will stop people from trying to hurt you or kill your dog if that's what they want done.
> 
> Meanwhile: Petey and the Troopers earned themselves some lawsuits. *tosses confetti*
> 
> Re Jon and Sansa's relationship being used against them: it's not a "ruins the lawsuit" thing, it's just if Sansa and Jon turn out to be banging, the Trooper lawyers will try to cast doubts like Jon is being led around by his dick, or was colluding with Sansa somehow, or knew her beforehand and this is all some elaborate scheme. It's not a slam dunk for the Troopers by any means, it's just something Jonsa have to be aware of. As long as no one knows she and Jon have a thing, they won't request Jon's work emails and find out he's been sending dirty love notes to Sansa, lol. C'mon guys, not on the work email!!
> 
> I know that "they were recording the whole time, a-ha!" is suuuuuuuuch a tired trope. But let me have it this one time. I wanted Elia to dunk on some fools, and needed Littlefinger hurt. And I somewhat counteracted this with the fact it wasn't a huge moment of triumph for Sansa. She did stand up for herself, I won't rob her of that. But it was also stressful and sucky. It got creepy Pete off her back and probably got her some money down the line, but she would have preferred it never happen. It's awful and gross and no fun to go through. And let me tell you, lawsuits themselves are exhausting and incredibly long processes if you follow them through to the bitter end.
> 
> Poor Sansa really needs a hug. She'll get some from Beth, and some kisses from Lady back North...
> 
> Anyhow, that's the end of our time in KL. Tune in next time for: we back up chronologically and follow Jon through his part of the separation. And of course, how ardently he yet pines for his honeybee...  
> ❤️🐝❤️


	19. Propagation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS again for: mention of Jon's scars, injuries, and PTSD. It's no worse than any of the other chapters, and it doesn't take up too much of this one. Also, warning for some sexist/homophobic talk in this one. Not to any woman or a gay person's face, it's more of the "shitty straight men saying shitty things to other probably straight men" category.

Watching her get into Mormont’s truck was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. He knew he couldn’t ask her to stay. He knew he didn’t want her to go.

But there was no stopping it.

Those blue eyes caught his one last time before she stepped in. A gentle pull to her mouth; a flutter of her fingers.

He waved back. Ghost barked.

She’d already helped Lady in, and then pulled the door shut behind them. Ghost whimpered, head swiveling to Jon in confusion, then leapt upright when the truck started and pulled away.

Ghost yanked on the leash. Jon grabbed him by the collar and shushed him. “C’mon, buddy. We’re okay. I know it sucks, but it’s all okay _.”_

Ghost didn’t want to hear it, struggling and yelping, and nearly strangling himself on his collar until Jon had to pull him away and shut the poor animal back into their truck. All that did was muffle the noise and send the dog scrabbling at the windows.

His heart clawed the same in chest.

He couldn’t quite believe it, and yet here he stood alone. No Sansa—no gentle hand tucked safely in his own.

“Fuck.”

But he had had a job to do and a Fed to speak with. Sansa would be getting on North, and he’d be…

He’d muddle on as he always had.

/~/~/~/

The Fed was excruciatingly to the point. “Aron Santagar.”

When the man offered his hand, Jon immediately returned the gesture. “Jon Snow.” They shook firmly. And then the Fed—fancy suit and fancy new winter coat—had pulled out a roll of laminated paper. Unfurled it; revealed a startlingly clear satellite shot of: “Snakewood Pass?”

The corner of the man’s mouth tugged up. “Good eye. I’ve been told a bridge went out?”

“An old logging one.” Jon agreed. “Only the Service and some thru-hikers used it. Why? What do you want to know?”

The Fed just smiled thinly. It turned out he wanted to know _everything_. When it was built, the span of the pass, its composition, the nature of the breakage. Jon had answered each rapid-fire question as best as he could.

Eventually, Jon had asked outright: “Why the interest? Are the Feds fronting a replacement?”

Santagar had just shot him an inscrutable look as he rerolled the map. “That’s not the concern right now.”

Then what was?

But Jon knew he wasn’t going to get an answer. After everything that had happened today, and seeing Sansa walk away—he didn’t much care. “That all you need? I’ve got places to go.” Ironoaks was impassable except by snowmobile. Roads had to be cleared. Medical runs needed to be done to get medicine into the city, and then people who needed anything ranging from dialysis to chemotherapy back out. He had a full docket, and whatever hope he’d had of North Base being revitalized—it’d been thoroughly crushed.

“Don’t let me stand in your way.” But the Fed offered a hand again, seemingly genuine as he said: “It was a pleasure working with you, Ranger Snow. Good luck.”

Jon took the gesture in the spirit it was offered. “Same to you.” And with that, the Fed got into another SUV—driver waiting—and vanished back down the mountain.

Bloody politics.

Jon returned to his own vehicle and Ghost laying despondently across the front seat. His chest felt gouged wide, but there was no one left to see it. No one but his closest friend. “Hey, buddy.”

The dog just whimpered miserably. Jon sighed and ruffled his ears. “Me too, bud. Me too.”

/~/~/~/

After that, he did what he was best at: throw himself headfirst into work. It was hard to think of Sansa—her hands, her sighs, how pink her skin would get as his mouth was on it—when he was working sunup to sundown and crawling into a cold sleeping bag at the end of each day.

It wasn’t a bed, it shouldn’t conjure memory of her.

But some mornings he still woke up with his arms aching for who wasn’t between them. Maybe someday he wouldn’t think of her as much; he’d let go of Val quickly enough.

But fucking gods _,_ Sansa wasn’t Val. That was like trying to compare a candle to a sunrise, and who ever forgot about the sun?

And it didn’t help that he was carefully rationing the cookies Sansa had baked him instead of getting it over with. Every time he ate one, he was back in that kitchen again. Woolen and warm, cared for, Sansa smiling in hope that he’d say something nice about her baking.

He always had, and that usually won him a kiss and then her nuzzling against his cheek.

Fucking _gods_ did he miss her.

He finished chewing and swallowed. His eyes came open, and there he was back in this ravaged wood again.

“Are you gonna share the snacks or not?”

And Jon immediately scowled at his partner for the day. From where he was pulling his climbing harness on, Harry Hardyng grinned back: “You know the food rule, Snow.”

Jon did. “You’ll get these over my dead body.” And then bundled the plastic and shoved the entire thing into his coat.

Hardyng scowled. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you too.”

“I could drop your ass out of a tree.”

“Try it.”

But Hardyng’s grin crept back. “Then you owe me some of Mrs. Coldwater’s snickerdoodles.”

Jon sighed loudly. The food rule was the food rule, and he bloody well knew it. “ _Fine.”_ And then didn’t even grumble through the mutual ritual of them checking each other’s harnesses.

But Hardyng had never met a moment’s silence that he’d let survive. “Heard you got trapped with a skibunny for a solid month, you lucky fuck.”

His jaw spasmed. “Shut your mouth.”

“C’mon, you never have any good small talk, and you finally have this? Seriously man, was she cute? Mormont’s not fessing up, but I bet she was.”

“We’re not having this conversation.”

“I’m just saying, if I got to live the fantasy of rescuing a hot girl, and then having her oh so grateful up in one of those cabins—”

Jon pulled Hardyng’s leg loop _extra_ tight. The man winced, and Jon snarled: “ _It wasn’t like that_.” It wasn’t—it hadn’t been that at all. That inferno between them hadn’t been about the rescue or the tight quarters. She’d said so. It’d been because…because she’d…

His throat burned.

Hardyng stuck his fingers in Jon’s waistbelt and found little give. Checked his loops, offered: “Look—sorry, alright? I’m sure she’s a nice girl.”

Whatever was boiling up inside him, Jon swallowed it. “She is.” And then he stared the other ranger dead in the eye. “So I don’t want to hear it. She had a rough go with the Troopers, and I don’t want _anything_ going around about her, you hear?”

“Shit.” And Hardyng turned and spat into the snow. “I get it. You weren’t on-call, but it’s been a clusterfuck with those assholes. Can’t get anything coordinated, and the Moon Gate—” He breathed harshly. “Godsfuck; you don’t want to know. But I heard that you’re gunning for them.”

His hands slowed. Frost leeched into his gut.

Hardyng just stared back, gaze steady and the wrong shade of blue. “You’re on the right side of this. They can’t keep fucking with people’s lives.”

It wasn’t what Jon had expected. Not at all. An unanticipated but gratifying wave of relief rolled through. “Yeah.” And he went back to working on the harness. The thing about Hardyng was though…well, the man always knew things. “Have you heard anything?”

The other ranger didn’t disappoint. “Aunt Anya’s been running herself ragged. She says they’re not getting out of it easy this time. Civilian Oversight is pissed, Warden’s pissed, insurance is gearing up to be quadruple extra premiums pissed. She’s been hoping for years that this lackadaisical fuckery would catch up with Corbray, but not this bad. That he ever got the job over her—s’bullshit.”

Jon grunted an agreement.

Hardyng shrugged. “We’ll see, you know how it is.”

He did, and nowhere in him lived a high expectation. Corruption, good old boys, cops—he didn’t have hopes at all. Same shit, different day, and never did he bloody learn.

Hardyng just stood there and let Jon work the rest of the way down. “Good?”

And Jon gave the man’s gear one last sharp tug. “Good. You’re up first.”

“The Young Falcon takes flight again—”

“Please stop saying that.”

“No.”

Jon just rolled his eyes and got into the belayer position. Hardyng slung a chainsaw over his back and started climbing. And there it came: a moment of stillness. Him watching Hardyng on the ropes, and then there she was slipping into his thoughts again. He could perfectly imagine the look on her face at getting called a skibunny. How she’d splutter and hiss, and then turn spitting mad. Gods above, how flushed she'd get. And maybe if he was lucky, that feisty bit of anger would get turned on him, until she demanded—

His breath plumed. “Fuckin’ A.”

He was getting ahead of himself again. Hoping against hopes: that she’d write him back, get a job nearby.

That she’d let him have her again.

He told himself the cabin had been more than proximity and fear. That her softness had been real. That she thought of him even now, the same as he thought of her.

/~/~/~/

But he’d learned not to hope a long time ago.

/~/~/~/

Showering wasn’t something they really did out in the field. It was either a fast sponge bath in one of the shelters, or them depending on the kindness of whatever town they passed through. At Ironoaks, it was little old Mrs. Coldwater with her snacks and decent water pressure that stopped them from becoming swamp beasts.

And all for the low, low price, of letting her catch sight of a few rangers wandering around her house in towels.

“C’mon.” Hardyng cajoled, sitting pleased, shirtless, and dripping water in Mrs. Coldwater’s kitchen as she piled ganache tarts and applebutter cheesecake onto his plate. The man waited until she turned her back to hiss: “This is the most action the biddy gets that isn’t bridge club. Do the old lady some good; she’s been trying to catch sight of you for _years.”_

Jon scowled, but for once, his gut didn’t twist into knots. His throat didn’t close to the point of suffocation. He just felt extraordinarily grumpy.

Hardyng jabbed a fork. “Your face is gonna stick like that.”

Jon didn’t dignify it and shoveled in another bite of cheesecake. He wondered if Sansa knew how to make any, if she’d let him help. Lick the spoon, then lick her—

Maybe it was about time for that shower.

He heard the pipes rattle, and just in time, too. Roland Waynwood came strolling out in a towel, and Mrs. Coldwater let out a delighted gasp.

“See?” Hardyng railed, but Jon ignored the man and got up, letting Waynwood have his seat and Mrs. Coldwater’s attentions while he headed to the bath.

Undressing passed relatively uneventfully. He’d been trying harder, lately. Not looking at the ceiling. Not hesitating. Just pulling one garment off after the other until he was bare. He forced himself to stare at his abdomen for a solid minute after. A muscle fluttered in his jaw, his neck. Something hot and hideous wormed through his gut.

But he got through it, and maybe even took step closer to being used to this.

Something had changed with Sansa, and broken through a long-held dam. He didn’t want to lose that. He hadn’t realized the rut he’d been in these past years, and it wasn’t a place he ever wanted to return to. Rotting where he stood.

If he’d tried harder after leaving the Watch, he _knew_ he could have had more time with her. Would have felt more comfortable reaching for her without so many doubts or self-loathing blocking the way. There would have been more of her skin against his skin. Holding her closer. _Being_ closer.

But he’d already wasted that chance.

He stepped into the shower and let the hot water rain on his face. Sansa was still on his mind as she always was. With the close quarters in the shelters being what they were—he let his hand settle on his cock. Imagined her.

He’d never had sex with her in a shower, and he bloody well should have. Just another wasted opportunity to add to the tally.

He’d self-flagellate another time. That image of Sansa was with him now, bare and slick and her hair so red. Laughter in her eyes. Her sighing so sweetly when he put an arm around her back and dragged her to him. Her breasts, godsdamn—all wet and soft and begging for his attentions. And he’d give them gladly.

Her mouth parting at the suck of his. Gasping. Sighing. Letting him slip a hand between her thighs. Probably laughing at whatever horrible come-on he made about being clean, before she was tugging him up and parting his mouth with hers.

He imagined bending her over against the wall just like the workbench. Fucking gods, her pert bottom, her glistening cunt. All for him and offered so eagerly. Him sinking into her as she arched back. Meeting him halfway as she gripped his cock so perfectly—

But like most of his fantasies, it shifted halfway through. Her back against the wall instead, one leg hitched around his waist. Eye to eye as he rutted into her. The way she welcomed him in, deeper and hotter and gasping his name into his ear.

It was enough.

He spilled into his hand with a choked off grunt. The Sansa that had existed so brightly faded to nothing. He turned his palms into the spray and watched the dream wash away. His head was fuzzy. Forlorn. Filled and empty all at once.

He’d forgotten a washcloth, and he wasn’t using Mrs. Coldwater’s loofah no matter how much the old biddy might like it. He soaped up his hands and started scrubbing. When his arms and legs and back were all done—

He dragged his hands over his abdomen. His stomach rolled, but he didn’t vomit onto the floor of the shower. Gods knew he’d done it before.

He slowed, then halted. Carefully, he pressed his palms in and felt the shape of the scars.

The flesh didn’t slide away or fall to ribbons in his hands. His organs stayed exactly in their place. The skin was raised, stiff, and surprisingly warm to the touch. Here the scars were, living on his body. It was over and had been over for years and years. Whatever pain existed lived only inside his head.

These were his wounds, and he’d survived them. His skin had closed back over itself. Endured.

When Sansa had told him about the Lannisters, about everything that had happened to her, he wished he’d told her how much strength that had given him. That it’d made him brave enough to raise his own voice.

It was just another regret to add to the pile.

He held his hands there as long as he could stand it before them pulling away. His throat worked, then swallowed a dozen times to keep the nausea down.

He’d try again tomorrow, and then the day after that. He’d try and try and try, until there came a day that this was easy.

/~/~/~/

“Pack up boys, we’ve got a SAR!”

“Fuck yeah!” Hardyng cheered from below.

Jon killed his chainsaw and cupped his hands around his mouth. “What’s the word?”

Vardis Egen shouted back: “Some guy hiking out to his grandparents on the southeast face! You’re on point, and we’ve also got Gilwood Hunter coming in with Powder!”

“Hot damn.” He muttered, then kicked off to let Hardyng bring him down. Nothing like a good rescue to get the blood going. He’d have to watch Ghost though—Powder was one of the VFS’s female dogs, and she and Ghost always had a good sniff about every time they crossed paths.

They packed it in, then hiked the two miles back to the trucks, bypassing all the light equipment that’d been following behind them. The rangers opened a path, the light equipment would widen that to a lane, and then the heavies would be in behind them clearing out the entire road.

It was the circle of life.

Ghost was waiting for him back at base camp with Roland Waynwood. The man threw Jon a salute and then shifted back to tying down the shelters for towing to their next camp. Ghost immediately ran to meet him, tail wagging madly as he woofed a greeting. Jon scuffed a hand over the dog’s head. “You been good?”

Ghost whuffled.

“Yeah, you always are. I think you earned one of Sansa’s treats, huh?”

Ghost’s ears shot straight up. His head swiveled wildly for a moment in search of her. He always did at the sound of Sansa’s name.

But she was nowhere to be found. Ghost’s ears drooped slightly, and Jon quickly scratched them again. “Hey, none of that. Treat time.”

He’d run out of cookies two days ago and nearly teared up over it. Ghost at least had another solid fortnight of treats to go, the lucky beast.

They got in the truck, and Ghost gobbled up the offered treat then whimpered for more.

“Nope.”

The dog barked ferociously, then sulked the rest of the way to the staging site. More Rangers were waiting there, and Hunter was already out with Powder.

There were Troopers milling about, too. Jon scowled to himself, pulled his overcoat back on, then leashed Ghost and headed out. He skirted the various cliques of Troopers and made his way to Hunter. The older man welcomed him with a slap on the back and a warm word. “Good to see you, kid.”

He scoffed. “I’m thirty next month.”

“And a bloody child.”

Jon just barked a laugh.

To his eternal surprise, when Powder hurried over to sniff Ghost and knock heads—Ghost’s tail swished a few times, but beyond that, he ignored her.

Hunter’s brows shot up. “Huh, never seen that before.”

Jon just shrugged, even though he knew the reason why. He knelt down quick, gave both dogs a pat, then muttered into Ghost’s fur: “I know. Ain’t no girl gonna replace your girl.”

He liked to think that Ghost’s rumbling after that was an agreement.

Hunter filled him in on the state of the search for the missing hiker, and by the time that was done, Waynwood, Hardyng, and Egen had all caught up. Being the senior Ranger on site, Egen immediately whipped the rambling mass into shape and gave marching orders.

He completely ignored Benedar Belmore, the senior Trooper on hand, who was now glaring at the back of Egen’s head. Maybe if Belmore wanted to be in charge, he should have been _in charge._

Jon’s gut began to churn ugly. Belmore had been part of the search for Sansa, and entirely useless for the whole thing. Jon could feel his temper coming on like a building storm. It was the temper that Mormont had derided him for. The temper that Viserys had shared. The temper that always had Uncle Daeron and Grandam Rhaella watching him, searching for any resemblance towards—

Fucking gods, did he have an axe to grind.

But he knew Sansa wouldn't give a damn about it. She had nearly died. Nearly _died_ , but these fucking shitwads standing here—she wouldn’t care. She’d want him to walk right past them. Sansa wasn’t here to see any of this, but…

He took a steadying breath. Another. Tried to push the anger out with every exhale.

He didn’t know if it helped. The buzzing was so loud in his head, he almost didn’t hear Egen say: “Hardyng’s your second, get the scent and go.”

But it was something to do that wasn’t ripping Belmore a new asshole, and then getting summarily murdered by every Trooper here. “On it.”

The scent was on a sweater, and Ghost was at his best behavior. Head up, eyes alert, chest puffed as he took a few deep inhales and then put his nose to the ground. For once, Jon had no work to do but follow, and follow he did. Up the road, off on a hiking trail. He quickly saw where it’d all gone wrong. With the trees tumbled helter-skelter, where the actual trail turned had been blocked off. The leftwards split, meanwhile, became a phantom trail—something that looked like a path but wasn’t.

He heard Hardyng trudging behind him. The Troopers farther back with radios squawking. Ghost pushed left, and Jon kept following.

It went on for hours. Daylight waning. A mostly frozen stream that gave Ghost fits. Circling, doubling back—the hiker clearly well and truly lost now, but trying to correct. They took a break on an uprooted tree, fed Ghost and then themselves.

Hardyng manned the radio. “Powder had it for awhile, but she lost it at a ravine two klicks east.”

“Hikers never sit still.”

Hardyng shrugged. “It’s not like he knows we’re out looking for him.”

Overhead, a helicopter circled and then passed on.

It didn’t ease Jon any. Waynwood caught up to them a few minutes later, night vision goggles in hand.

Jon took a pair. “Joy.”

Waynwood wasn’t fussed. “You’re always complaining about not having a good SAR. Egen says there’ll be enough light reflecting up from Ironoaks to go through the night. Fourteen hours is the hard limit on shift, though. And if you need to tap out any earlier, do it.”

“We’ll be fine.” Jon muttered as he set the goggle on top of his head. For once, Hardyng grunted an agreement without further commentary.

Waynwood just jammed another set of goggles into his cousin’s hands. “You’re welcome.”

There was a burst of static out in the woods. More boots. It was Belmore: out of breath with two younger Troopers trailing behind him.

The rage came back on Jon like an eruption. He stood. Ghost hopped to his feet. Hardyng stayed seated, but his head slowly turned.

“Been on your asses long enough?” Belmore called snidely.

Hardyng’s mouth parted to show teeth. It wasn’t a smile. “Glad to know thoughts of my ass haunt your dreams, Belmore.”

The Trooper Captain went ruddy. “Cut the gay shit.”

But that un-smile stayed on the Hardyng’s face, eyebrows arching as if to say: _you started it._

“Snow.” Belmore snapped. “A word.”

Jon didn’t move. “I’m listening.”

The Captain insisted: “Alone.”

And Jon’s fists clenched tight. His pulse began to throb. He’d wondered when this would be coming. Adrenaline hot, sweat cold, out in these woods so far from anything, and Troopers with a score to settle.

Ghost was hiding half behind him, but the dog started growling.

“You can say it right here.” He answered evenly, and watched the other Troopers slowly crowd in.

It wasn’t something he thought of often these days. He’d outgrown getting into scraps with the other rangers, so that Hardyng was taller and had thirty pounds on him wasn’t something Jon thought of. Neither was the fact that while Hardyng would be difficult in a fight, Roland Waywood could crush Jon’s head like an egg.

Where his cousin was tall, Waynwood was taller. Where Hardyng was mean, Waynwood was _vicious._

And then there he was: six foot four, and all two-hundred pounds of him bull rushing the other Troopers. They scattered, stumbling halfway down the hill just to get away. Waynwood rolled like thunder. “You come one more step, neither of you leave this mountain, hear me?”

Belmore snarled. “Nobody threatens an Arryn Trooper on—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Hardyng said, calm as all damnation as he rose to his feet. “I know why you’re here, and it proves why you’re fucking ancient, and still never made it past Captain. You’re a fucking idiot.”

Belmore’s hand fell to the butt of his gun. “I’m warning you—”

And Jon said: “You don’t want to do that. Unless you’re here to help with the search, which I very much doubt after your fuckup on the last one, move on.”

“Snow’s right.” And then Hardyng was right in Belmore’s face. “What are you gonna do, huh? Stick a gun in Snow’s face? Murder us while there are forty fucking Troopers around and another dozen Rangers besides? Tell me what the brilliant plan is.”

Belmore looked ready to rupture a vessel. “None of you fucking candy-ass park rangers know your place.”

“And what’s that?” Jon asked, feeling that eerie calm bleed in. Black and cold and level as a knife. “We’re all ears.”

And Belmore was spitting. “Troopers do the real work. You want to complain? Say it to somebody’s face instead of hiding behind your little bitchass complaints. Come on, Snow. We’re right here.”

They were. “You’re incompetent, you’re liars, and I respect you about as much as I do the shit on my boot.” Jon felt the fight boiling. _Boiling—_ “And I’ll go after every single one of you motherfuckers if I have to.”

Belmore spat onto the ground between them.

Waynwood was moving in a slow half-moon now. Hardyng bared his teeth. “You swung your dick around. Go home.”

Waynwood was directly behind the Captain now. Belmore was oblivious of it and hissing: “We’re watching you, Snow. Remember that.” Then turned.

If he’d meant to make a dramatic exit, it failed miserably. Waynwood was only inches behind him, and Belmore physically flinched away. He tried to recover, but they could all see the fear now; that his life for a single moment had flashed before his eyes.

Waynwood kept circling, tall as a monolith. Gear dark, shadows growing longer. Stalking with the dark as it churned.

Belmore’s hand was back on his gun again, finger pointing. “You—”

“You’re gonna get a call tonight.” Waynwood rumbled. “Me and you got an acquaintance in common, and she’s gonna carve your heart out and make you _eat it.”_

Sweat was breaking on Belmore’s face. He snorted. “If you think I’m scared of some bitch, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Major Anya Waynwood, Arryn Troopers, First Rank.” And Waynwood’s smile was the knife. “Be nice to my grandma when you talk tonight, I’m sure she’ll be nice to _you.”_

And Belmore went white as a sheet. His mouth flapped, pupils becoming pinpricks.

Jon had learned plenty about Anya Waynwood over the years. Belmore probably had, too. There were women that were lightning strikes. Forest fires.

Anya Waynwood was a hurricane.

“Keep stepping.” Waynwood ordered, and Benedar Belmore kept _stepping._

Down the hill, away from them, snarling to the other two Troopers: “And where the fuck were you two shitstains, huh?”

The brightest edges to the world receded. His knuckles unwound and stayed unblooded. Ghost snuffled unhappily and nosed at his hip, and Jon patted him. “It’s okay, Ghost.”

Hardyng just sat again, popped some jerky into his mouth, then opened the line. “Egen, you read? Channel nine.”

_“This is Egen. Confirmed.”_

Hardyng spun the dial, waited a moment, then reopened the wire.

Egen was there immediately. _“What’s wrong?”_

“Belmore just made a pass at Snow, and not in the fun way.”

 _“Shit.”_ Egen hissed. The line crackled harshly. _“Everyone in one piece?”_

Jon stared at Hardyng a long moment and slowly understood what both men had just done for him. Had been willing to do. The lines that had been drawn in the sand in full anticipation of blood being spilled across them.

He nodded to Harry.

Harry nodded back.

Answered: “Affirmative. We sent Belmore back where he came from.”

_“You three stay in a group. I’ll send Waxley around to join you. Get the search done and watch your backs. Listen—Mormont made the line bright on this. We’re not lying down for this shit anymore, so are you ready to swing?”_

Jon nodded. “Ready.”

Roland cracked a grin. “Right behind you.”

“For the fences.” Harry agreed cheerfully. “More complaints for everybody.”

_“Just get your work done and keep in touch.”_

“Roger that.” And Harry closed it. Shot Jon a look. “Congrats Snow, two complaints in a month. You’re setting records.”

But Jon knew how easy it was to be hung out dry. So when he said: “Thank you.” And Harry and Roland clapped him on the back—

He meant it.

/~/~/~/

He and Ghost made the find. The hiker was embarrassed but grateful, and Jon tried not to hold it against him that he wasn’t Sansa. Not like the poor bloke could help it. Jon supposed it was obvious now which rescue would always be his favorite.

The rangers convoyed out of the area without further incident, and then it was back to Ironoaks and the shelters, and sitting knee to knee to knee with Harry and Roland while they filled their complaints.

They talked more in the coming days. Family, friends, that there was some kind of Ranger shindig a few weeks from now that they wanted him to come to. To his surprise—he said yes.

They eventually had to attack the city at another angle, and in circling the mountain, got to use a VFS base for the night. For the first time in weeks, Jon was sleeping in a real bed. It was only a bunk, but that was still better than a shelter floor.

It also meant that they had an internet connection again, and gods, there was no more avoiding it. He told himself to wait, but he couldn’t help himself and jumped to the front of the line. He’d done this so rarely, that the other rangers accepted it with barely a grumble. When they cleared the computer room, Jon sat down gingerly. Put his credentials in. Carried his heart in his throat.

His fingers hovered before looking down to Ghost. “Wish me luck.”

Ghost whined.

He hit enter, and there wasn’t one email waiting.

There were two.

The world suddenly felt flush with color. Heat. _Hope._

He devoured the first. Saw Lady’s sulky picture, then the few sentences Sansa had gifted him. She’d sent it the same day as she’d left.

A single line lodged itself in his mind: _I’m thinking of you._

The second email had come a week later, and that hope, that foolish, selfish hope—it’d been answered in full.

He moved onto her second missive, absolutely giddy. That giddiness quickly became something else. Hot, aching, a jolt to his groin that her talking about his hands shouldn’t have caused. But it did. He was weak for her, and it always _did_.

She was still thinking about him and those days together. Their bed and everything they’d done inside it. Same as him.

He wondered if he could get away with a second shower tonight.

Cerwyn was so far away, but for a little while, Sansa felt near. And he happily opened up his own email to send her a reply.

/~/~/~/

Later on—Sansa’s emails printed and shoved into his pocket—he held a picture under Ghost’s nose. “Look, it’s your girlfriend.”

Ghost looked at the picture for only a moment before snatching it right out of Jon’s hand.

/~/~/~/

He didn’t get to wait for Sansa’s reply. He knew it wouldn’t have done any good to look, the email off at ten and him back up again at five, but he’d checked anyways. Some part of him had yearned foolishly, and that same part had been disappointed quickly.

But it was alright—he knew that now. She’d write back. There were no more doubts in his mind on that. Nothing had been solved between them, no future or even a hope of one outlined, but for now he let himself ride the wave.

He could be a pessimist again tomorrow.

They circled back to Ironoaks, and in another three days finally broke through. There wasn’t a moment’s respite before they were shipped to the Eyrie to run supplies by snowmobile to the mules to take farther on.

Mya had been there, bright-eyed and hearty, and then gasping: “What a handsome boy!” Which sent Ghost’s tail thumping against the snowmobile. Jon tried not to be insulted.

With her hands vigorously petting Ghost’s head, she shot him a knowing look. “So, Snowman, your girlfriend is cute.”

He nearly fell off the snowmobile. “My what now?”

“His what now??” Harry shouted from farther on.

Jon wheeled around. “You weren’t in this conversation!”

But Harry had bulldozed right into it. “Are you talking about Jon’s rescue-bunny? Is she cute?”

Mya didn’t even hesitate. “Yes and super yes.”

“I KNEW IT.”

Jon groaned. “Hardyng!”

“You’re telling me the details later, you absolute dog. _It’s not like that,_ my fucking ass!”

Mya just looked terribly amused by them both. Offered: “Hello to you too, Hardyng.”

“Stone.” And Harry dragged his eyes lasciviously upwards. “Looking good as always. Tell your wife I said hello.”

Mya snorted. “Sure thing, hotshot.”

Harry just shot her fingerguns and kept driving to the depot ahead.

Jon was, quite possibly, dying where he sat. “Sansa isn’t my girlfriend.” And it galled him to say it. He wished he could claim otherwise. He wished that…

“Huh.” And Mya’s arms crossed. “Then Sansa was just asking Myranda for ranger-girlfriend tips for nothing, huh?”

He spluttered. “What?”

“You heard me.” Her hands fell to her hips. “Assignments, permanent postings, the whole deal. But what do I know, I’m not a psychiatrist, just married to one.”

And Jon’s world got knocked right off its axis. Sansa was…she was asking about…how to be his girlfriend? Like she actually, genuinely, wanted to be? As if she was planning on it?

“Good talk, I guess. When your brain restarts, get those supplies on the upside. I’ve got another caravan to pack.”

“Okay.” He answered faintly. Sansa was asking around about dating a ranger. No big, he wasn’t going to freak out. It could mean something. It probably meant something, but he wasn’t going to lose his head.

/~/~/~/

Jon absolutely lost his head. He made up an excuse about his snowmobile making noises to divert them to the nearest VFS base and the garage therein. He’d shooed Harry and Roland inside, eschewing all offers of help, then spent half an hour outside until the snowmobile miraculously stopped making noises without Jon doing anything to fix it.

After that, it was inside to Harry’s beady stare and the computer. This time when he logged on, there were four emails waiting. _Four._ His heart leapt in joy.

One by one though, they shook him to his bones.

It started great. Wonderful, in fact. Her talking about his mouth again; of wanting him with her in a motel bed. And gods, did he want the same. But then came the mentions of KL that fed into his rapidly growing dread about her unemployment. That part didn’t sound right.

“Suspicious, yeah?”

Ghost woofed in agreement.

“That’s what I thought.”

And then came the line that shattered him.

_You’re my knight, you know. You always will be._

It knocked his legs from under him. For a solid minute, he just had to sit there. Blinking rapidly and his heart too big for his chest. He wanted to claim he’d become a ranger for purely altruistic reasons, but…her words fed something selfish in him. Something that made him want to stand up and puff out his chest.

He was _her_ knight, and there would be no other. Before or since. He didn’t exactly have a white steed or a sword on his belt, but…

He flipped to the second email and saw there was a picture attached. Knowing this had to be from when she was in KL, he curiously flicked it open.

His jaw dropped.

Red, violet, pale. A bloom of color, and her smile glowing on the screen. That Sansa had never worn makeup around him and spent most of her time wearing his clothes—he’d not thought anything about it. She was gorgeous any which way, no matter the trappings. But a Sansa fully dolled up in blush and silks—

“Holy gods on earth.”

Smoky eyes, a mouth painted red, the lustrous dip of a necklace dragging his eyes straight towards—

“Holy shit.” A man yelped behind him, and Jon startled so hard his knees slammed against the desk.

It was Roland, jaw equally dropped, and eyes wide as he demanded: “Who’s _that?”_

Jon wanted to gouge the man’s eyes out. He flung a hand across the screen. “Have you ever heard of privacy??”

“Nope.” And then he was effortlessly yanking Jon’s arm back down. “Look at _her_ , she’s gorgeous. Hey! Harry! Snow’s girlfriend is a smokeshow!”

“KNEW IT!” Harry bellowed, and then was galloping up the stairs.

Jon smacked the monitor button to kill the screen.

“Hey!” Roland yelped. “Bring her back!”

“No!”

“I didn’t even get to see her yet!” Harry complained. “C’mon Snow, share the goods!”

“Over my dead body.” He snarled.

Roland started wrestling him out of the chair. “That can be arranged.” Causing Ghost to start barking wildly at them all.

Harry kept whining. “Rolls, just tell me what she looked like.”

“Blonde!” Roland crowed. “Gorgeous curls, these big brown eyes. Tiny—like you could just scoop her up.”

“Nice.” Harry hummed.

Jon, meanwhile, went slack out of sheer bewilderment. “What? No. The redhead? Sansa’s the redhead.”

“…huh.” And Roland caught him halfway to the floor and set him back in his chair. Ghost stopped barking, but then ran over to headbutt Roland right in the knee. Roland just patted the dog absently. “Seriously, the redhead? Then who’s the little princess with her?”

“Uh…Beth I’d guess? Her friend.”

“Who is…?” Roland asked leadingly.

Jon just started back blankly.

Roland groaned. “Single, you idiot. Is she single?”

“Why would I know that?”

“Because she’s your girlfriend’s hot friend?”

“Sansa’s the hot friend!”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

Harry threw up his hands. “I still haven’t seen either of them!”

“And you’re not going to.” Jon rallied.

Roland nodded quickly. “You’re not worthy.”

Harry gasped. “Since when??”

“Since you were a manwhore who’s unworthy. So basically forever.” And Roland threw an arm around his cousin’s shoulders. “C’mon, back downstairs. Snow needs some alone time.”

“For what?” Jon asked in confusion.

Roland made a jerking-off motion. Harry nodded sagely. “Right, get a wank in, then you can tell us _all_ about Sansa and hot-Beth.”

Roland’s arm went alarmingly tight around Harry’s throat. Harry squawked, and moments later was being dragged down the stairs by his neck.

Jon felt like he’d been sucker punched. He had to blink a few times to get his brain clear. Ghost hurried over to put his head in Jon’s lap, and Jon petted the dog soothingly before turning the screen back on. The picture was still there, as jaw dropping as ever.

Jon printed a copy and stuck it in his wallet.

After that, things went downhill at breakneck speed. He finally looked to the words of her actual email. Read a few lines. He looked at his work address. He then looked at the dirty talk he’d sent her on his work address.

Jon groaned: “I’m a moron.” If he’d fucked this up for her—he didn’t care about himself. But she’d started a lawsuit, and he didn’t want to be the horny disaster that got in her way.

Ghost licked his hand.

He read farther, and then all thoughts of email addresses flew out of his head.

_You were right about the man in the woods._

What did that mean—had someone tried to hurt her a second time? How did she know? And if there was security following her around, did that mean that—

His pulse picked up again. The back of his neck went red-hot.; his chest, his hands, the roil of his gut. Was she okay? Was she safe? This email—it was over a week old. Anything could have happened since then. _Anything._

He tore to the next one.

And Jon saw _red._

He was on his feet; heart hammering and hands clawing at the back of his neck. He had never met Petyr Baelish, and yet he could perfectly imagine grabbing the man by the neck. Using his thumbs to crush the little weasel’s windpipe until it was nothing but a ruptured, gurgling mess.

She’d been in trouble, and he’d been all the way up here and fucking _useless._ She wasn’t okay. He’d read her email, and no one who was okay sent something like that. Something that scared and angry and stumbling.

He couldn’t imagine writing back; what words he could string together to make any of this okay. It wasn’t enough—none of this was _enough._

With naked fear clawing through his ribs, he opened that fourth and final email.

_We’re back in Cerwyn. Everything went fine._

_Lady only complained a little about having to leave mom’s kennels._

_I’m sorry about the last email, you don’t have to answer it._

And that was it. And like hell, like fucking _hell._

He nearly threw himself down the stairs. “Hardyng! I need your cell!”

“Don’t you have your own?”

“No.” He snapped. “Do you know where the nearest signal is?”

“Top of the western valley!” Roland called from the kitchen. “It’s about thirty minutes out!”

Thirty minutes was nothing. He put out a hand, and without a word, Harry slapped his cellphone into it. Jon got on his boots, his jacket, but didn’t stop long enough for snowpants. Ghost chased him out the front door and to the snowmobile. They both got on, Ghost crouched low in front of him, and Jon gunned it.

The night opened wide before them. Sky purple, the snows glowing with starlight, the winds cold as a knife to the teeth.

It was the sort of beauty that Sansa would have adored.

Their headlight bounced through the hills, twisting shadows off the downed trees. There had been another night just like this, so cold and dark, with the shadows stretching for him—

But for once, he forced the memory away. Lost it like smoke on the wind.

Thirty minutes on, and he checked the cellphone. Once. Twice. Second time was pay dirt—two bars of signal. He’d already memorized her number from the reports she’d filled. Jon dialed in, but she didn’t pick up. Gods. It was an unknown number—why would she? He called her a second time. A third.

Hoping.

And the third, as always, was the charm. The line snicked open, and her sweet voice asked: _“Hello?”_

And his breath billowed out. “Sansa? It’s Jon.”

She released a trembling gasp. _“Jon?”_

“Yeah,” He murmured. “Hey, honeybee.”

 _“Oh.”_ And it sounded so warbling over the line. Gods, he didn’t want to make her sad.

Not ever. “I hope it’s okay that I called.”

_“Of course it’s okay! I didn’t think I’d get to hear your voice like this. Jon, I missed you so much.”_

A knot uncoiled in his chest. “I missed you too. Gods, you have no idea. I’m sorry—I just got to all your emails tonight. Are you okay?”

_“I’m okay. I’m sorry for—”_

“Don’t be.” And then he snarled: “That goddamn _shit_ , he shouldn’t have laid a finger on you. I swear that I’ll—”

 _“He didn’t.”_ She assured. _“I didn’t let him, and then Elia made him rue the day he was born.”_

“He should be ruing every day after that.” Jon muttered, but then added: “I’ll send her a fruit basket.”

Sansa just laughed. _“I’m sure she’ll enjoy that. Make it nice.”_

“But you’re okay?” He pressed.

 _“Yes.”_ She promised. _“I’m okay.”_

He didn’t want her scared, or having to think about bad things, but he couldn’t let this go. “Did anybody hurt you while you were there?”

 _“No.”_ She sighed. _“Maybe made me a little sad. But we got back to Cerwyn alright. Nothing else really happened after Mr. Baelish acted like a ratfink.”_

Ratfink was right. Except… “Then what did you mean about the man in the woods?"

He heard a crackling—a shifting of weight and then her body. _“Elia heard rumors. Joffrey had this awful friend named Trant that really scared me. I never let myself be alone with him. Apparently while I was in the Vale with you, he had to have his arm amputated for an infected dog bite. Fancy that.”_

“Fancy that.” He echoed faintly, because holy _shit._ “And he’s just—what, getting away with it?”

_“We faked Lady’s death too well. We can’t do anything to him without putting her back in Lannister crosshairs. I don’t care. He lost his arm, that’s enough.”_

It wasn’t enough for him, but there was nothing he could do about it. “I’m sorry, honey.”

_“You didn’t do anything to cause this. Everything’s…it’s okay. Lady’s safe. Elia’s gathering up other girls at Mockingbird, so that’s going to take awhile before we see anything. But my lawsuit in the Vale got filed. Jon…are you okay? You haven’t had any trouble?”_

He thought about the truth. About fear. About the line that laid between them. “I’ve caught some jawing from the Troopers. That kicked off a new round of complaints, but it’s nothing we can’t handle. Mormont has our backs.”

 _“I should have known.”_ And then she was rooting around. “ _Here, write this down—or memorize it. Elia’s arranged with her brother Oberyn to take your calls if you need a lawyer. They’re really good, they’ll take care of you.”_

He thought on the complaints and wondered. He didn’t want this to escalate out of control, but— “Can’t hurt to know. Lay it on me.”

She laid it on: that sweet voice, her phone so carefully cradled to her mouth. She sounded so _close._

 _“How’s work?”_ She asked, and gods, she could have demanded anything. _“And tell me honest.”_

He told her honest. Ironoaks, the SAR, up in the Eyrie. Sansa had been especially delighted at any mention of Mya.

 _“She’s wonderful.”_ Sansa declared breathlessly.

He felt rather cross. “Wonderful?”

 _“You’re wonderful too.”_ She censured gently, and he felt himself going ruddy in the cheeks.

He had to dodge this before she had him babbling. “It’s been a hell of a few weeks, huh?”

_“You can say that again. Anytime life would stop being exciting, I’d appreciate it. Are things settling down in the Vale yet?”_

His mind went to Mya and that story she’d told him. What Sansa had been asking after. But the thing was…he wasn’t ready yet. He didn’t have an apartment or even his own car. A bloody cellphone. His social life was nonexistent.

He’d been living on the VFS’s time and dime, which made him virtually untraceable.

It also made him a ghost.

And he didn’t want that anymore, he had to start living in his own skin.

Live a life that someone else could be in.

“They’re slowing a little.” He hedged. “But we’re probably booked solid until the month is out.”

 _“That’s a shame_.” She answered, and it was. He didn’t have an apartment…but maybe she’d let him come up to Cerwyn soon. Take her out. Take her to bed.

Live that dream awhile longer.

But he wasn’t ready to ask for that, either. “It is. I didn’t get to ask—how’s the job hunt going?”

He could practically hear her pouting. _“There was this museum job in the Saltpans, but I didn’t get it. I think they just hired internally and had to post because of some law. There’s this bank in Redfort that’s looking for a curator for their art collection, and a gig in White Harbor, too. But what I’m really hoping for is an Archivist position at the House of Arryn.”_ She paused a long moment, then softly confessed: _“It’s in the Eyrie.”_

A tingling grew at the back of his skull. All those cities that she listed—they were near. _Really_ near.

And his breath went short. “Yeah?”

 _“Yeah_.” She answered shyly. _“I’m still short on experience, but they emailed me back a few days ago. I’m in the first round of interviews.”_

And he took it like a blow to the chest. “Sansa, that’s amazing. Gods. I hope you’d get it, that’d be—” But he couldn’t voice it. This wild hope—this holy terror.

She struggled just the same. “ _I’m really excited. Maybe if I…maybe….”_

“Uh-huh.” And he swallowed it. Sansa could be—Sansa was _coming back_. Into the Vale, or near enough to it. A murky water suddenly became clear. There was a path forward, not fully formed, but branching out and there to take.

He’d looked at this all wrong: Sansa leaving didn’t have to be an ending.

“You keep on it, alright? I’ll call you when I can. I’m getting a new cellphone as soon as I’m near a town. I’ll email you the number. I won’t be around signal much, but…”

Hope unfurled in her voice. _“Only if that’s a personal email, Mr. Snow.”_

He winced. “I’m real sorry about that.”

_“If you’re sorry, then I need to be, too. I was the one who started the dirty emails.”_

And he found himself grinning. “Is that what those were? I’m not sure—I need at least ten parts more dirtiness before they count.”

 _“Do you?”_ She asked, wholly amused and syrupy sweet. He wanted to lick the taste of it right from her mouth. _“I’ll keep that in mind. Or maybe we should save that for the phone?”_

By the gods. “That sounds perfect.” He agreed. “Whatever you want.”

 _“I’ve heard that before.”_ And it came on such a sly little curl, but then her voice grew tentative: _“Jon, if I came back to the Vale…”_

Gods. Gods _damn._

“I’ll be knocking down your door.” He promised. “You’ll need Lady to keep me away.”

 _“I wouldn’t want to keep you away.”_ She said, soft and sweet, and her voice tinged with something lovely. With something he was scared to put label to lest he jump the gun.

But maybe. Maybe someday soon…

She pushed through. _“Put Ghostie on the phone, I need to talk to my sweet boy.”_

“I thought that was me.”

 _“Sweet man.”_ She corrected airily, and she could have knocked him over with a feather. _“Bring me my baby, Ranger Snow.”_

Jon did, not entirely sure what would happen. But the moment he put the phone by Ghost’s ear, with Sansa’s cooing coming out of it—Ghost went wild. Waggling and barking, and his whole body shaking with incandescent joy.

Ghost kept woofing, looking around, then shoved his face even closer to the phone. Suddenly, there was barking on the other end. Ghost lost his mind and howled back. Lady and Ghost went on for nearly a minute before Jon wrenched the phone away. “I think we’ve been butted out of the conversation.”

Her laughter rained in his ear. _“Maybe a little. But they need their sweet nothings, too.”_

She’d put name to what they were doing. Sweet nothings. Soft words. Unspoken promises. And gods, was he excited for every one of them.

_“Say something nice to Lady before you go.”_

She must have held the phone over, so he said: “Hello, sweet Lady, have you been good for your mum?”

To his surprise, at the sound of his voice, Lady let out another excited woof. That set Ghost off a second time.

But eventually, the realities could be ignored no longer. The cold was leeching into his bones. “I gotta head back.”

 _“Nothing lasts forever.”_ She agreed despondently.

He felt pretty despondent, too. “Take care of yourself. Send me as many emails as you want. They can be about anything, and I meant that. I’ll answer quicker once I have the new phone.”

Her breath spilled. _“Watch out for yourself, too. And it’s okay if your job gets in the way sometimes. You’re doing good, and I can wait until you’re done.”_

It severed something inside him. Released him from the earth. “But not too long.”

 _“No._ ” She agreed gently. _“Not too long.”_

Nothing lasted forever, and that was the truth. He’d known that every day of his life, and usually for the worse.

/~/~/~/

But maybe, he was coming to realize, things only ended so something new could start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, clutching Roland and Harry to my chest: I love them, your Honor.
> 
> I know the Jonsa fandom usually has an axe to grind with Harry...but just give him a chance. Assholes with a heart of gold are my favorites, and I can never help myself.
> 
> Now, I think we're only 3-4 chapters to the end. I'm aware that with this last scene...well, I may have undercut tensions a bit. The thing is though, with a lot of stories, I'm usually balancing "what would reasonable people who don't want to hurt each other communicate" vs. "ZE DRAMA". And sometimes these can be pretty mutually exclusive. I usually try to split the difference, but in this case, with the emotional place that Jon is in, I really wanted to go with the "healthier" option. The ball is in Sansa's court on them getting back together, but in the same way I realized them going no-contact wouldn't work, I also realized them getting together being surprising to Jon DEFINETLY wouldn't work.
> 
> They're growing in their own ways, but to have a relationship, they also need to grow together, too. Jon's been managed and bounced around a lot of his life. He needed to make some choices as well, and be working towards the happy end he wants. Same as Sansa.
> 
> Though, naturally, we have a few more bumps to go before things settle out.
> 
> Sidenote: I absolutely 100% know that dogs couldn't recognize the picture of another dog, BUT LET ME HAVE THIS.
> 
> Now, tune in next time for: Sansa's job hunt gets difficult, Jon has a long overdue conversation with Jeor Mormont, and there is buzz about a bridge...
> 
> (p.s. In case anyone wanted to know why Roland went gaga, this is roughly how I picture Beth Cassel in this story. Just make her hair even curlier, and you got the picture:


	20. Skinning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, general Warning for Jon and all of his issues: the stabbing, his wounds, the PTSD, panic attacks, etc. Also, there's mention of dead animals this chapter. No violence done to animals on screen or even implied cruelty. Just dead animals. Think _The Godfather_ when a horsehead got left in that dude's bed. It's there, we move on.
> 
> Also...this chapter has a scene that's very important to me. Important to the story, sure, but also something I'd like to see more of in the stories I read. It's just something that means a lot to me. I think most of you will know what scene I mean by the end of this.

It was embarrassing to say, but the last time Jon had owned a phone, the keys had been mechanical and the phone had a hinge. Looking at this gleaming and alarmingly thin bit of glass made him feel like something ancient. The world had passed him by, and he’d let it.

But that wasn’t something he was ready to deal with yet.

Being a man who wore gloves a good chunk of the time, he wasn’t a fan of the touch screen either. Or texting. When had people replaced calls with texting?

But for Sansa…

_Hey, it’s Jon. New phone acquired. Hope your day’s been good._

And was glad nobody was around to see him pecking out the message with his index finger.

Ghost ruffed.

“I know, I know. I’m an old man. Leave me alone.”

Ghost just stood up, swished his tail about, then started trying to nose at the phone in his palm.

Jon pulled it out of reach. “I don’t have Lady’s picture yet. You have to wait.”

Ghost let out a burbling whine.

“I know, but I don’t have Sansa’s picture either. We’ll both have to suffer until I can forward those.”

A doggy grumble answered that. So did a mutinous glare.

He understood the sentiment. “Hey, we’ll go join the guys for lunch, alright? I’ll get you some bacon.”

At that, Ghost’s front paws started doing a little tap dance. Peace offering accepted.

For now, at least. “C’mon.”

They caught up to Roland and Harry at a little café downtown. They’d been on the move again, pushing down into the Vale of Arryn and a town that had a problem with a herd of discombobulated elk invading the streets. With priorities being what they were, the issue had been ignored so far. Well, ignored right until a family of mountain lions had followed the elk in.

Turned out, local mums could raise a hell of a ruckus when they were worried little Bobby could get snatched by a lion out of his own backyard.

Harry called through a mouthful of pasta: “Go’ ih?”

Jon held up the phone.

The man swallowed. “Gimmie your number.”

“Why?”

“So I can send you my nudes, _obviously_.”

That had him rolling of his eyes, but the minute he sat down, the whole table was exchanging numbers. The waitress showed up after, hair shot through with gray and coffee hot, to fuss over Ghost and then flirt outrageously with Harry. Clearly continuing whatever had started before Jon arrived, Harry flirted right back.

“Shameless.” Roland coughed into his hand.

Harry didn’t even bat an eye.

Jon ordered his food, a plate of bacon for Ghost, then settled into the discussion over the mountain lions. They were hoping pushing the elk back into the upper passes would take the predators with them. They didn’t want to shoot any of them, but if needs must…

His plate of food arrived. The kitchen had also sent Ghost a bowl of sausages on the house, which the dog practically inhaled at the waitresses’ cooing.

With that and the second round of flirting exchanged, she departed again.

Roland was aggrieved. “She’s old enough to be your _mother.”_

Harry’s expression was that of the self-righteous. “All the ladies need their loving, Roly-poly. And I’m here to give it to them.”

“Dear fucking gods.”

At Jon’s elbow, his phone lit up. Ignoring the rapidly rising squabble on the other side of the table, he sent it a glance. Text, unknown number. Probably one of the guys about to give him shit—

_Hi Jon. :)_

_Where is my Ghostie? Still no pictures???_

_Oh—this is Sansa!_

And he nearly stabbed himself in the mouth with his fork.

He scrabbled for the phone, answered: _Course it’s you. Who else would be asking me for pictures of Ghost?_

He didn’t have to wait more than five second for another bubble to pop in.

_I am a demanding mistress. Pictures, Ranger Snow. I need them._

Jon really wanted to follow that _mistress_ business up, but he wouldn’t win any points by dragging his heels. He looked over and saw Ghost with his snout and then the slit of his eyes pushed above the table. He was eying Roland’s sandwich ravenously.

Jon snapped a picture. Said: “Rolls.”

The other man looked over and then snatched the plate away. “No you don’t!”

The dog whimpered like he’d been struck.

“Okay, just a little bit.” And Roland ripped off a piece to offer. Ghost immediately snatched it away. The dog gobbled it down and began crying again.

Jon felt his mouth curling. “He knows you’re weak now.”

“No I’m not.” Roland snapped.

“Sure you are.”

And Ghost turned those big glossy eyes straight on Roland. Inched closer. Whined like some sad orphan who’d been left to starve in the streets.

Roland made a noise like he was being strangled and shoved nearly half his remaining sandwich into Ghost’s mouth.

“Weak.” Harry agreed. “Snow, have you heard about the helicopter thing?”

“What helicopter thing?”

“Lots of flights over the Northern Reserve, even though nobody’s bloody up there. And people are saying a lot of trucks from the Feds are out and about.”

Now that was odd. “A Fed did ask me about the bridge when I came down; that logging one into Strongsong.”

Harry paused. Stared. “…and?”

“That’s it. They asked, they left. Nobody tells me shit.”

“Useless.” Harry muttered, but Jon was already back to his phone, bumbling a near five minutes before figuring out how to send Sansa the picture. He only had to wait another few seconds for her to answer.

_BABY._

_Soft perfect snubby snout!!!_

_You fed him, right??_

He was smiling, couldn’t help it as he clumsily typed: _Waynwood did. Got snookered._

Gods, was she the cutest thing alive.

Sansa wrote back: _Ghostie used the sad-eyes, didn’t he?_

And Jon laughed aloud. _You know him so well. They’re a lethal weapon._

There was silence on the other side of the table. Ominous silence, and Jon slowly looked up. Harry and Roland were grinning.

Harry’s brows waggled. “The lovely Miss Sansa?”

And his response came knee-jerk. “And how would you know?”

“You’re doing the face.” Roland said.

“Yep, the _face_. Like half your IQ points got knocked out.” Harry agreed.

Roland crossed his eyes and dropped his mouth into a slack-jawed gape.

“I don’t look like that!” Jon hissed.

“Just wait.” Roland answered. “I need to get some drool going.”

His screen flickered again.

_Quid pro quo._

And then a picture popped in. His heart galloped—it was Lady and Sansa sitting on a couch. Faces smushed together, Lady’s snout lifted imperiously high. Sansa’s eyes were shining. Her hair was braided; little flyaways at her temples. Ones he remembered smoothing with his thumb.

And gods, the sweat on her skin beneath. The taste of it.

No makeup this time, just soft leggings and an even softer shirt. One he wanted to touch and then slip his hands under.

It was Sansa as he’d known her. Sansa as he always wanted her.

This time, it was him making a noise like a dog who’d been kicked.

“It’s the face again.” Roland observed.

“A picture perfect example. And speaking of…” Harry nearly vaulted over the table. “Dirty text? Pics?”

Jon yanked the phone to his chest. “None of your business.”

“C’mon.” Harry complained. “Let me live a little. With this storm, do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been laid?”

“A week ago.” Jon said. He’d been front and center when Harry had wormed his way into a warm set of arms and a fancy chateau for the night.

“Right.” Harry agreed. “It’s downright criminal, I’m in a _drought._ ”

“Nope.” Jon answered, but then thought about it longer. Asked: “So. Theoretically, if you send a girl a picture of your dog, and she sends a picture of herself with her own dog back…?”

“She wants to see your stupid face.” Harry answered.

“Yep.” Roland agreed around a mouthful of fries. “She wants th’ face.”

“And then the D.”

“Obviously.” Roland agreed as he swallowed. “But the face first. S’portant for girls, the face.”

“Too right.” Harry nodded sagely.

Jon could feel the will to live vacating his body. “Never say any of that to me again.” And returned to the phone. All the words in his head were stupid or horny. Nothing that she deserved, so he settled for: _My girls are looking great. Thank you._

Sansa answered quick.

_:) :) :)_

_Do you have time to call me before you go?_

And he jumped up from the table to throw some stags down. “Get that boxed for me.”

“Hey!” Harry squawked, but Jon was already out the door. He found a nearby bench. Sat. Dialed.

Her sweet little voice answered on the third ring. “ _Hullo, Ranger, how are you this lovely day?”_

He just tipped his head to the sky. “Better now that you’re here.”

/~/~/~/

Later that afternoon, he was up in a tree. Surprisingly, there was enough signal for his phone to buzz. He stopped his survey for the elk and got his glove between his teeth. Pulled it off. Dug out his cell.

There were pictures on screen…of himself?

He shouted down. “What the fuck??”

“Those are the goods shots!” Harry shouted back. “Come back down and take off your snowpants. I’ll get the next climbing shot of your ass—girl’s love that!”

“No!”

“I am trying to get you laid! Show some fucking respect!”

Jon just grabbed a chunk of snow and nailed Harry right in the face.

/~/~/~/

He did send Sansa a nice shot of him and Ghost on the snowmobile, though.

/~/~/~/

She answered it later: _My boys!!!! :D_

/~/~/~/

Jon getting a phone was the best thing to happen to her in weeks. They settled into a rhythm, her and him, texts every day and calls twice a week. They didn’t always have a lot of time, Jon either hiking out to call her, or just passing through a more populated area. But they made of it what they could.

They shared what they were doing with their days, where she was in the lawsuits, let their dogs bark at each other like the roof was coming down. There were quiet, probing questions, too. Ones that never quite got to what either of them were after.

 _Maybe_ , those questions implied. _Maybe someday._

Jon was still busy. She was still nowhere near him and starting to think it’d be summer before they could visit.

In every call, she gave what Jon was starting to refer to (rather fondly, in her opinion) as _The_ _Sansa Report._ She was in front of the TV every morning watching the international news then using her own laptop to scour the local stuff around the Vale. She relayed each and every bit to Jon, even if he didn’t much care for the trade war between Braavos and Lys, or that she was currently obsessed with a scandal in the Royal House of Qarth.

But Jon getting that phone…it might be the only good thing to happen.

She’d done her phone interview with the House of Arryn, as perky and articulate as could be managed, and since then received _nothing_. Radio silence. They had to be setting up in-person interviews soon—unless they hadn’t liked a single candidate in her group.

But she didn’t know.

Her time in Cerwyn was characterized by boredom and frustration. For all she’d thought she’d catch up on reading and maybe have some relaxation, it was punctuated by unanswered job applications, unceremonious rejections, the odd call from a temp agency or a thinly veiled MLM scheme trying to recruit her.

The continuous slow grind of the lawsuits.

Silence.

Every rejection made her feel dimmer. The museum had said no, the Dornish publishing house, the production company for some new costume period drama about Robert Baratheon’s fostering in the Vale. They’d been making gowns for the show—and she knew that period’s gowns! Had seen and touched them with her very own hands!

But the production company hadn’t been impressed.

Just a day ago, the bank in Redfort had said they had decided to go a _different direction._ She hadn’t understood what that meant, only that she hadn’t gone the job. She’d been so depressed by that turn, she’d spent the rest of the day fishing around Manderly again for an opening, then got drunk enough to send a resume unsolicited.

There hadn’t been a response to that, either.

It felt like there was less to look forward to every day. Lady and Beth and every bit of contact she had with Jon were her bright spots, but…

It was just another day of taking Lady for walks, staring at these walls, cleaning Beth’s apartment or cooking their meals. Hoping for Jon, but only having bad news to share if he arrived. He kept encouraging her every time; called whatever company that rejected her all sorts of names. He always sounded so upbeat about her next chance and utterly convinced that she would get it.

But she knew every failure disappointed him, too.

She wondered how many more either of them could take.

Sometimes her phone rang, but it was only her mother prodding at Sansa to come talk to one of her friends at the school district or the local library. Those were the hard days. The only people who seemed happy with her leaving the auction house and KL were her parents. They thought she’d settle down back home now. Find a nice northern boy. Get a job that the people at her parent’s Friday fish fry would understand and praise.

Well, she’d already found a nice northern boy. Not the other stuff yet, but she wasn’t giving up on those either. And that usually got her up another day to send a slew of resumes into the void.

/~/~/~/

Beth came home that night with a bottle of white and seeming impressed with the lemon linguine Sansa had made. They broke the bottle open, toasted to a hellish week, then dug-in with every meaning of the phrase.

“I just…the hospital’s good, you know? But all these restrictions! I can’t ever go shopping with any of my clients or show them how to cook at home. It’s like I just give them a map they’ve never seen before—and good luck! Have fun changing your whole concept of a diet on your own!” Beth groaned aloud. “Of the ones who actually come to their follow ups, the success rate is abysmal. I feel like I’m failing so many people all the time. There’s a better way to do this, but this is the way things have always been, and those old fogies in the administration don’t want to hear it!”

Sansa wished she had answers, but she didn’t even have those for herself. “Have you ever thought of going freelance?”

“Maybe?” And Beth carefully tucked a swirl of pasta into her mouth. “I’ve had some pretty rich clients who wanted the whole deal. Shop, prep, hold their hands after they shoved twenty gas station ding dongs in their face. I could use them to subsidize a bunch of the others, but…keeping an active client stream up…I don’t know.”

“I know that feeling.” She mumbled into her glass.

Beth just nodded vigorously. “Right? I wish things would just make sense and give me an answer. Silver platter, you know? But life isn’t like that.”

“It’s _not.”_ Sansa agreed with every bit of vehemence in her.

The jabs of Beth’s fork were growing wild. “The universe is _stupid._ You, no job but a man. Me, no man but a job! We should combine to form one super woman who has it all!”

“What a dream.” Sansa sighed longingly. She raised her glass. “A toast.”

Beth gasped: “To us becoming one whole person who has their shit together?”

“Yes!”

And they clacked their glasses together. Drank deep. Sighed in unison.

Her head tipped back to keep the tears at bay. “I wish having a man meant that I could actually see him.”

“Awwwww, babybun.” And Beth covered her hand with her own. “Winter won’t last forever.”

But some days it felt like it would. “You know, there’s this legend in the far North about an endless winter that—”

“Don’t you distract me with your fancy history degree!”

They ate their dinner quieter after that, gave Lady a few choice morsels, then curled up on the couch to watch a ski jump thing that Beth was into. Her friend had then remarked: “We should go skiing this weekend. You’ve been sitting around too much, and sitting around too much makes people sad. That’s _science._ ”

Sansa’s head flopped against the couch. “Nooooooo.”

“You need to get that ass in shape, Miss Couch Potato! Cute Rangers like cute butts.”

“They _do.”_ And she rather wished Jon was here to cop a feel of hers.

…she may have drunk a bit too much wine at dinner tonight, who was to say?

But she knew Beth was going to bully her into it. Her friend was disgustingly healthy, disgustingly in-shape, and disgustingly sporty, too. Cross country skiing in the winter, softball in the summer, marathons in the fall.

Sansa sometimes felt tired just _looking_ at her.

In her lap where Lady’s head was perched for skritches, her phone lit up. A call coming in—Jon. “Oooohh!”

Beth gasped as well. “Go! Go answer it! Live for us both!”

She went. Lady harrumphed at the sudden dislodging and moved her head to Beth’s lap as if to personally insult Sansa by doing so. She hurried to the guest room, shut the door, then tumbled onto the bed to answer: “Hey.”

“ _Hey, you.”_

She wiggled on the duvet. “Where are you?”

_“In a base near Redfort. One of the few places that actually has cell service in the cabins. S’nice.”_

Her heart dropped at the mention of Redfort—the sting of that particular rejection would linger yet. She injected even more cheer into her voice. “So you’re calling me from a cabin…inside…all warm and toasty.”

He perked up immediately. “ _Uh-huh…private room. Not that I’m suggesting anything—”_

And all that put-upon cheer became very, very real. So did the heat scalding between her thighs. “Jon.” And that shut him up quick. She wanted him. Maybe for tonight, these moments could be enough. Could carry her through. “I’m in my room at Beth’s, and I’m all alone.”

His throat clicked. She heard springs squeak, and then him rushing: _“Do you wanna? Sansa…I miss you.”_

“I miss you, too.” But she knew it didn’t have the same meaning those other times they’d said it. This was more immediate. Heavier. _Hungrier._

“ _But should we…?”_

“Do we have to worry about that right now?” Her eyes stung briefly. “I just…I want you. I’m always so happy with you, even if it’s just for an hour. None of the other stuff hurts.”

There was a long pause. A stirring of breath. _“Honey.”_ He asked quietly. “ _Is everything okay?”_

She sniffed once. Quelled it. “Can we talk about it after?”

“ _After_.” He agreed gently. “ _Let me take care of you a little while, okay?”_

“Okay.” She answered.

And he murmured: “ _Take off your shirt and pants, then lay down on the bed. Gently.”_

She did it gently; phone from hand to hand, rustling her clothes more than usual, baring her skin to the air. She laid back with her head on a pillow. Said: “I’m laying down.”

_“That’s good. Put me on speakerphone, then put it next to your head, huh? I need your hands free.”_

“For naughty things?” She asked coyly.

“ _Don’t you go putting words in my mouth, missy.”_

It had her wiggling once more. Speakerphone on, hands free. “Never.”

He just hummed. “Put your hands below your breasts. Slide them down. Your stomach, your hips, your thighs. Keep doing that. And don’t touch your cunt or your breasts—I’ll know if you do.”

Her gasp was breathless, and then she did as told. A slow slide. Skin on skin. Warmth slowly sparking all over and not just between her legs. Pools, eddies. Streams that moved with her very blood.

She heard him let an answering groan to her sighs. A rustling.

“Are you touching yourself?” She asked.

“ _Who’s the one in charge here?”_

“You are.” She answered immediately, delighted.

_“You’re damn right. Cup your breasts, then do what you like best to them. Tell me every part.”_

She’d never had phone sex before; hadn’t seen the point. It had seemed silly and embarrassing, and not remotely fulfilling to try. How wrong she’d been. She wondered if it should be a crime that a man could be this exceedingly good at it.

She cupped her breasts through her bra. Felt a scratch of lace as she started working her fingers. “I’m pinching my nipples like you do—oohh! It feels so nice.”

“ _Nicer than when I do it?”_

“Nothing’s nicer than when you do it.” And then she talked him through all her delights; pinching and rubbing and kneading. Hotter and hotter and _hotter._ “Can I take off my bra yet?”

“ _Not yet. What color is it?”_

“It’s sort of—” She bit off a sigh. “A dusky rose, real pretty. You’d like it.”

 _“I would.”_ He groaned. “ _Gods, I fucking would_. _I’d take it right off with my teeth. Put my mouth all over those gorgeous breasts until you were begging me.”_

“Begging for what?” She asked eagerly.

“ _For me to put my mouth on that pretty cunt.”_

She made this shocked little gasp, even though she wasn’t shocked. Titillated though…she was that in spades. Bra off; doing whatever Jon told her.

A slick slide in her ear—his skin. She knew he was touching himself and remembered him kneeling between her thighs on the floor. Mouth desperate, eyes desperate, his hand on his cock—

Her panties were sticking now. “Please, I want to touch myself. Please please _please._ ”

_“Only ‘cause you asked so pretty. Slip your hand under your panties. I want you to close your eyes and picture that I’m there with you. Above you. Do you know how much I loved watching you touch yourself?”_

“Oh!” Slick. Hot. _Perfect._ A circle of her fingers beneath silk. Rhythm. “Tell me.”

 _“You were doing it for me. Only me. Showing me how much you wanted my cock, and how perfect you looked getting ready for it. If I could have stayed with you in that moment forever—_ ”

Lights were sparking. Worries stayed distant.

“ _My perfect girl. Gods—I miss you._ _The way you smell, taste, the sounds you make when I have my tongue so deep in your cunt—”_

She cried out. In her mind, in this heat and sweat, he was with her now. The burn of his eyes and his beard rasping on her neck. How tightly he clutched her. How deeply he was _in_ her.

Full at last. Heart. Body. Arms.

The words poured out of her: “You felt so good inside me. I’d get so wet and feel you sliding out so _sweetly—_ but I didn’t want to let you go. I wanted to hold you inside forever.”

He was panting now. Great, sucking breaths. She remembered how his chest had risen and fallen with hers. The weight of him against her body. The end coming, and him driving harder and harder inside her to meet it—

And it came.

Rippling, ecstasy. All things released. Him voicing her name like some distant prayer. Higher, higher. Wondering what could become.

A familiar grunt. The memory of the cabin, him coming, always trembling and holding onto her so tight. The waves receded slowly, and then she was boneless. Panties still on but bare everywhere else. Sated for an hour.

Jon’s breath washed against her ear. “You there?”

“Yeah.” She sighed blissfully. “I’m here.”

“That good, huh?”

“Don’t fish for compliments you know you’re going to get.”

“Sometimes a man likes to hear it.”

She laughed. “That was wonderful. You’re too good to me.”

“I could never be _that_ good. I’d have to bend the universe to be as good as you deserve.” And then he scoffed. “This was a warm-up.”

“For what?”

And his silence was immediate. Strained. “… _if we ever figure this out.”_

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. “I’m the holdup.”

“ _That ain’t your fault. Sansa…it’s not like I need to stay at this job forever. It’s not like I couldn’t move and do something else too.”_

“Jon—” And she scrambled up the duvet, feet kicking, sliding. Heart hammering. “Your job is—”

“ _It’s not my life. It’s good—it’s great, I love it. But lately…I’ve realized it’s not everything that I am. You’re doing all the heavy lifting on this, and here I am just hoping I can have my cake and eat it too. This isn’t fair.”_

“Fair wouldn’t be giving up your job—your calling.”

“ _And giving up yours is?”_

And those long held tears finally came. She shoved the heel of her hand against an eye. “I’m trying. I-I’m—I didn’t get the bank job in Redfort. I tried so hard, but it’s never good enough, and I keep screwing this up—”

“ _Shhhhhhhhhhh_.” He whispered. “ _Honey, no. Please don’t cry. You not being what they’re looking for isn’t your fault. You’re wonderful just the way you are. Always have been. You’re brilliant and you try so hard, and if they can’t see that? Fuck ‘em.”_

She let out a warbling laugh, wet with tears. With pain.

And Jon, as always, buoyed her. “ _There’ll be something. You haven’t heard back from Arryn yet.”_

She shook her head to no one. “But I don’t know why it’s taking so long.”

“ _Can’t know it’s bad until they say it.”_

“Maybe.” And she sniffled hard. “It’s only been…maybe three months since I quit? There’s time, I just need to try harder. You don’t need to do anything yet.”

“ _Okay.”_ He said slowly. “ _But Sansa?”_

“Yeah?”

“ _I’ll do something if I have to. I promise._ ”

“Oh.” She was crying harder. “I’m not worth—”

“ _You are.”_ He said. “ _You’ve been doing the same for me…you’re not saying it out loud, but Sansa? I can hear you. And it’s about time I returned the favor.”_

/~/~/~/

She cried herself out that night. Felt like her heart would either combust or join the air. There were words unsaid, but she felt their shape now. Mouthed them.

Tried to wish them into being.

/~/~/~/

Sansa was trying to put a good face on it, but she was sad, and Jon bloody well knew it. It absolutely killed him. But it was true what he’d told her. There were other reserves. Other ranger jobs. And plenty of his kind went out and started other careers—just look at Grenn.

She didn’t have to carry all the weight in this. It didn’t have to be on _her_ whether they succeeded or failed.

He still wished for the best, but when he had an internet connection these days, he went searching. Saw what was out there, what he could do. He loved being a ranger and didn’t particularly want to leave it, but it gave him a strange boost seeing all the jobs he could give a try. Do well at.

He knew she didn’t want to hear anything about him leaving the VFS yet, or even the thought, so he just did his best to check in with her as often as he could. Send her Ghost pictures by the truckful. Scrounge up every embarrassing ranger story that he had.

Anything to make her laugh.

Another day, and he shut the computer down. Sighed. Scrubbed at his eyes and pulled his other hand from beneath his shirt. Knowing that he wanted getting back with Sansa to be inevitable—he’d been working on his scars double time. Every time he sat at the computer now, he pressed a palm to his wounds. Traced them.

He didn’t feel well about it, but he no longer had to yank his hand away or take breaks. They were just…there. Unpleasant, but it no longer felt like there was a gaping hole in the middle of his body. That anyone who looked could see into the guts of him.

It assured him a little more each time. That when he touched his skin, it stayed whole.

He could hear Harry knocking around downstairs. Ghost and Roland having a tug of war with an old bit of flannel. Everything was alright, or near enough.

Except Sansa.

He sighed.

Harry shouted: “Snow! Party tonight—get dressed!”

He wanted to stay around base and call her—but he knew Harry wouldn’t have it, and that Sansa would be on his case if she thought he wasn’t socializing to spend time with her. Mention even _once_ that he was getting out of the house—

He sighed again. “Great.”

/~/~/~/

The party was in the house of a ranger and his wife that Jon didn’t know real personal, but that didn’t really matter. They had at least a quarter of the service on hand to spill off steam. There’d been so many cars, their trio had been forced to park a quarter mile from the house and start walking.

They’d been able to hear the party from the moment they stepped out.

“Gods, I needed this.” And Harry was nearly vibrating. “Do you think the accounting girls will be here?”

“It’s not like they gave me a guest list.” Roland grumbled.

They kept bickering, and Jon just trailed behind them in the dark. Boots crunching. Breath clouding. He remembered a time when a night at the bar or a house party had been nothing but blurry happiness. His brothers all around and feeling firmly rooted in the world. No second guessing. No doubts.

But some of those men he’d shared those happy hours with, or stood next to in crowded living room smoking cigarettes—

They’d bled him.

And he still didn’t know a way past it. Always awkward. Always slightly out of place. Off. The other rangers always tolerated him well enough, but he hadn’t made a single friend since coming here.

“Snow, stop lollygagging!”

Or…maybe no more than two.

The ranger community was small in the Federated Kingdoms. He didn’t think anyone knew the full story of what had happened to him but Mormont, but most of the VFS knew _something._ Knew he was persona non grata back where he came from.

He didn’t know how to fit anymore.

If Sansa had been here—he would have liked having her on his arm. Her giggles and easy rhythm. How effortless she made every conversation seem.

Harry and Roland’s shadows stretched longer, and then the house swam into view. It was dark out, but the grills were going and the fire pits blazing. They didn’t even make it to the front door before they had a bratwurst in one hand and a beer in the other.

Slapped backs followed, nods. Greetings. A few raised eyebrows came towards him, but Jon just nodded back. Tried to act like he belonged and showed up to these things. Harry immediately swanned off into the scrum of the house, but Roland stuck with him outside; introduced him around as if these people didn’t already know him through their work.

But well…maybe in this context, they didn’t. This wasn’t Jon Snow the Ranger—this was Jon Snow the man.

Nobody threw him out on his ass, at least. War stories were shared, then complaints, and then Roland nearly started a riot to find a Trooper to skin alive. Jon roiled it down before battle lines were drawn.

 _Good to see you, Snow._ Seemed to echo in his ears as the night wore on. Eventually, Roland left him for the fireworks that Jon absolutely needed no part of. He wanted to leave with his hands attached at the end of the night, thank you very much. And speaking of those hands—they were getting mighty cold, and Jon made the executive decision to head inside. Jacket shed into the coat room, which Harry had already managed to occupy with a girl who was giggling as his hands went wandering.

Jon had just tossed his coat past them and moved on. The house was sweltering, and beer gave way to liquor. There were little hors d'oeuvres he didn’t know the names of. Some ranger’s wife cornering him to tell him he’d gotten too thin, and then piling his plate even higher.

Voices got louder. Music sloshed wall to wall. The house felt like it was pulsing around him, smearing in sound and color. Tension crept into his neck first. It traveled down his spine. A slap to his back came out of nowhere, and Jon startled so hard he had to smile to cover it.

It was Waxley shouting something. The house was too loud though, and Jon just nodded along while his heart pounded. More and more people kept pressing in. It was elbow to elbow, then shoulder to shoulder. Then—

A hand grabbed him and yanked him around.

His body went rigid.

It was Gared Hall, a fellow refugee of the Nights Watch. Jon never worked with him—Gared had come over a year after he had. And though Mormont had hired the man, Jon just hadn’t been sure of him. Mormont had always supported Jon’s separation from his last life, and he had never felt inclined to greet his ghosts.

But there Gared was, solid and heavy, and pulling them face to face. Close enough to hear. Cigar smoke heavy on the man’s breath as he bellowed: “Snow! Good to see you! How you been?”

“S’okay.” His plate and glass were still awkwardly in either hand. The press had him locked in place and unable to shrug off the man’s grip. Where was Waxley? Where was anybody? His skin was _crawling._

“C’mon, we’re all running around like rats! What’s your roster been looking like?”

But did Mormont really know the truth? Could he be sure? Could any of them ever be sure who—

His throat spasmed; choked on the boil of the air. “I gotta go.”

“What?” Gared shouted.

“I gotta go—I gotta—I gotta call my girl.”

And to his surprise, Gared’s face brightened. Another clap smacked against shoulder. “Good on you! Glad to hear you’re getting on. It’s real good. You’re great folk, Snow. I’m sorry if—”

But he couldn’t bear to hear it. He forced a grin, then carried it like a wound as he shouldered his way into the scrum. He lost his plate and glass somewhere and hoped to the gods he hadn’t dropped them on the floor like an animal.

Hallway. Kitchen. Faces. Door.

The night air hit him like a wall. Scouring. Colder and emptier, but he didn’t know if it would make him any cleaner. He staggered past a few huddles. There were calls, he thought, maybe to join them at the fires. He didn’t answer. Jon hoped they all thought he was going off somewhere to throw up a gutful of liquor.

He still might.

It wasn’t until he hit the trees, that he felt like he wasn’t going to be crushed between two mountains. He breathed until the lights and sounds faded. Until his head stopped ringing.

Until he locked the nightmare in.

His phone was in hand, and he could have wept to see the signal. But he held that in too. Just dialed; breathed longer.

“ _Jon!_ ” Sansa chirped, her surprise so bright. _“Didn’t you have a party tonight?”_

His breath trembled in his chest. His bones were shaking.

And her voice went low. “ _Darling, are you okay? Can you answer me?”_

He was trying. Couldn’t; just made some awful, croaking noise.

Her voice was a cooling stream. “ _Breathe slowly for me, alright? That’s it. Just follow me.”_ And she breathed. Held. Exhaled. He tried to match her until he could do the same.

It was years and minutes. Days and hours. Helpless, and yet slowly tethered down. Her voice was the anchor. “ _Lady wants to say hello and let you know how much she loves you, but I think we can wait a bit for her barking. Sweetheart, I need you to tell me, are you somewhere safe?”_

Shame filled him. “I’m…I’m outside the party. I’m okay. _Shit_ —nothing happened, I just. Everything hit me wrong. I couldn’t get out, and then I fucked up your night and I—"

“ _You didn’t. I want you here right now, Jon. Right here with me. There’s nowhere else I ever want you to be.”_

He was burning. Eyes. Throat. The shame in his lungs. “You promise?”

“ _Yes.”_ She answered plainly. “ _Forever.”_

He took that into himself; made it the iron in his spine. Rose again under its strength.

“It was a good night.” He mumbled. “I’m just being stupid.”

“ _It’s not stupid to get overwhelmed. Was it too much noise? Too many people?”_

“Yes—no. It might have been both.” And he scrubbed a hand through his sweaty hair. “This guy Gared is in the VFS, but he was in the Night’s Watch, too. He joined on a year after I did. I see him at the big stuff sometimes, but we don’t really talk. And…gods. I’m not sure if he was one of the ones who…”

“ _Oh, darling, of course that’d be awful. I can’t say I wouldn’t react the same if I ran into one of Joffrey’s friends, and none of them even hurt me that bad._ ”

“Trant did.” Jon muttered, because that was one name he wasn’t forgetting anytime soon.

“ _He did. Just…you don’t have to do this. But with Trant, knowing it was him—it didn’t make me feel better, but not knowing was worse. It was in my head some nights that the Lannisters had a hit squad out in the woods, or even one following me around. When I found out it was just Joffrey and one of his shitty friends…at least that’s it. I know what happened. He’s down an arm and back in KL, and I have that. I don’t like any of it, but knowing makes things easier.”_

He knew what she was getting at. “But how would I find out? It’s not like I ever knew who it was.”

Her exhaustion was his own. “ _Do you really think Mormont would have hired Gared if he’d been one of them? I talked to him when we were going down the mountain. Jon…it sounds like you cut yourself off from everything that had to do with the Watch, but I don’t think Mormont ever did. He was in charge of that organization for decades before he left, and even if he doesn’t know for sure who was there that night, I can guarantee you he has a good idea.”_

That had never, ever occurred to him. He also knew he wouldn’t have let it. “Well, shit.”

“ _It’s just a thought.”_ She answered. “ _Only you can decide if you’re ready for it. And if you never are—it’s not like life has rules for this. You don’t have to.”_

But he did. He knew it, and that knowledge had been living inside him much longer than he was comfortable with. The Watch was a millstone around his neck, and time and distance hadn’t cut that knot. He wasn’t getting better; getting to that place he wanted to be.

For him or for her.

“Sansa…thanks.”

“ _Anytime.”_

He half believed it. Maybe one day he would for full. “I guess I’ve spent long enough sneaking off with you, huh?”

She snorted. “ _If I was sneaking off with you at a party, we’d be making out much longer than this.”_

“Promise?”

“ _Promise.”_

“Alright.” And he took a grounding breath. “Talk to you later, okay?”

“ _I’ll be counting the hours.”_

Somewhere in the background, Lady ruffed and whined. He missed Ghost, missed Sansa, missed Lady. Missed them all together.

But he still hung up quietly and trudged back towards the house.

/~/~/~/

It scared the hell out of him when Mormont found him out in the yard. It was as if he’d summoned the man through sheer psychic will.

He’d squeaked: “What are you doing here?”

“Happy to see you, too.” Mormont grumbled. “C’mon, walk with me. There’s a lot less people and better alcohol on the up-top.”

Confused and vaguely alarmed, Jon followed him back. Around the house, to a stair leading up a wooden balcony, into the master bedroom, and then further into the study. There were fewer people upstairs, and nobody followed them after Mormont shut the door.

Jon could hear the party again, but the sound was muffled, a steady pulse instead of a roar.

A fire crackled low in the fireplace. Wordless, Jon went to stoke it while Mormont poured them some very expensive cognac. It wasn’t Mormont’s house, but he was the boss. It was probably fine that they were helping themselves.

Mormont didn’t leave him in suspense. “Gared came blubbering. He was worried that he spooked you, and he wants you to know he’s real sorry. He’s respected you keeping distance on the job, but he thought because you finally came to one of these social things, that it’d be okay to talk. He’s fond of you, you know, as much as he is of any of you little pissants from back in the day.”

Jon swallowed what felt like an entire mile of barbed wire. He didn’t know how to answer. A drink was shoved into hand, and then he sank into the nearest chair. Mormont sat across for him. They drank in unison.

“How do you…” The burn was on his tongue now. “How do you know he wasn’t in on trying to kill me?”

“Do you think I would have hired him if he was?” Mormont asked in pure disgust. “Give me some fucking credit. Gared’s solid, understand? I’ve never let you near any of the exchanges or cross-Kingdom teams with the ones I’m not sure of—and I’m not going to start now.”

But Jon kept pushing. “Do you know who it was? Who it was who—” But that part wasn’t easy yet, and he took another pull. Let it scald him.

The face across from him was stone. Wind worn. Ancient. “Once you know this thing, you can’t unknow it.”

“What does that matter?” He spat back. “I don’t talk to any of them. I can’t _see_ any of them. I’ve had this hanging over my fucking head like an axe for years!”

And Mormont seemed to wither right before him. The man’s next breath rattled, whistling between his teeth. His eyes—those near blind-blue eyes—they drifted past Jon’s face. Past these walls.

Past the mountains.

“I always told myself I had an open door for you boys. Looked out for you. Didn’t coddle your scraped knees or wipe your runny noses, but I made good men out of you. That I protected my own.” The man took a drink. His hand was shaking. “And I was a fucking liar.”

It rocked Jon to his very foundations. It put a crack in the world.

But the man continued on, heedless of any breaking. “I made too many compromises. I told myself it was for the good of the Watch, and instead I let it rot right under me. Thorne is rancid piece of shit, but when he forced me out, he was right. I’d lost the Watch. Who could believe in a man who preached with his morals in one hand, even as he was compromising them with the other?”

“It’s not…” But Jon didn’t know what it was or wasn’t.

“I told myself if I punished too harshly, looked too closely, that it would all fall apart. But if you let rot get into the heart of a thing—it’s gone. You’ve killed it. I’ve been trying to protect you, the VFS, the others who jumped ship after—but that’s too little too late. I know that now.”

The man had given Jon a job. Had done that and more, and yet… “What do you mean by protecting?”

“Do you think that Thorne just forgot about you?”

A horrible shiver crawled down his back. Chewed. _Gorged._ “What?”

“He didn’t.” Mormont spat. “But I made it clear to him and every one of his sniveling bootlickers, that if you so much as stubbed a toe the rest of your life, I’d burn the whole fucking thing down.” And Mormont splashed some cognac into his mouth. Snarled: “I know where the bodies are buried, and that’s only _half_ metaphor. They couldn’t keep their hold anyway—Thorne had to demote himself from Commander after a year.”

It was too much for Jon to process in a single breath. Thorne, he’d half known the man had been involved somewhere. Known how Thorne _hated_ him, and what that had probably meant. But finally having that confirmed still sent his stomach into free fall.

But… “He got forced out?”

“Only down.” Mormont rumbled. “Son, what happened to you—it sat very badly on the rest of the Watch. Thorne thinking he could play god and kill whomever he wanted? Lot of people didn’t like the mess you made of things, but trying to have you executed broke the fucking back. The resignations were a tsunami. Thorne ignored it; got drunk on power and let the ship sink. Those that stayed, they got angry. When Thorne came home one day, he found pig’s heads nailed to every door in his house and the bodies in his bed.”

He took those words like a blow to the face. All this time thinking the whole Watch had turned its back on him, that Thorne still ruled the roost while leaving Jon’s life in ruins—

Only half of it had been true.

“It was made very clear to Thorne that he’d opened the door. If he wanted violence? He’d get violence.” And Mormont looked a man burnt to cinders. “Shitstain resigned back to ranger before the week was out. They pulled Halfhand out of retirement. He’s mostly righted the ship. It’s not an easy peace back there, but everyone knows where they stand.” And Mormont breathed the ashes. “Do you want to know the truth?”

Jon wasn’t sure how many more he could take. He was only hanging on by tooth and nail.

But he nodded anyways.

“The cops and Thorne’s band had their own poaching ring. They always wiped out the competition as soon as it popped up, but those Freefolk were a problem. A problem they sent you after. And when you didn’t make it neat for them, Thorne took it personal. He started preaching that you were endangering the Watch. A traitor. I don’t know who exactly was outside your door, but I can give you the names of his people. I can even give you my best guess who was handed the hatchet.”

And a thousand gears finally locked into their places. He’d been nearly ripped in two…all just to stomp out some competition. A laugh rattled out of him, cutting edges and brittle with hysteria. All of it: the agonizing over the right thing, his friends, his foes. The girl, the lies, the beatings—

All so Thorne and some crooked cops could get a few more stags in their pockets.

“It was all bullshit?” He didn’t want that to be the answer. He couldn’t _live_ if that was the answer.

But Mormont’s eyes just swept shut.

And the black crawled cold inside him. “You knew. When they assigned me—you _knew.”_

In that moment, Jon saw Jeor Mormont as he was. Not the mythic man of men, not the towering god named _Commander._ Nothing at all. Bone and skin. Rot and compromise.

An old man hunched in his misery.

“Jon.” He whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t enough. For the scars, the screaming nightmares, the years that’d he’d _lost._ He wanted to break. Crack a jaw, rupture a nose. _Rage._

But there was nothing left. “Tell me the names.”

Mormont did. And the man was right—there was no unknowing it.

“Marsh…that—that’s not right.” But that single name blared through his skull. “He mentored me that first year. Marsh wouldn’t…he couldn’t…?”

Mormont just stared at him so bleakly. “The only thing Marsh has ever lived for was the Watch. And if he thought anyone was endangering that…?"

Bowen Marsh had shared home cooked meals with him. Had given him pointers every day. Had clapped him on the back for good work, and once saved his life on a blind overhang.

Marsh had been _proud_ of him.

Jon didn’t think he was crying. It was something worse. He drank without tasting. Stared without seeing.

Breathed without feeling.

“Son.” Mormont asked. Real careful. Real quiet. “I don’t mean the wounds, and I don’t mean today. Are you still hurting?”

He felt too choked up to speak. Felt close to sobbing. Gasped: “Never stopped.”

“Alright.” And the man sounded older than Jon had ever heard, as if he had a foot already half in the grave. “When I came here, I wasn’t in a good place. I wasn’t right inside. I think you know how that feels. There are things in life no man can grin and bear. I taught you wrong before; I gave you shit that was only gonna hurt you. Made you think you had to go it alone.”

No other man had ever done this in front of him, been this raw. _Apologized._

Men didn’t do this—except that Mormont already was.

“Mya’s wife Myranda, do you know what she does for work?”

Jon felt himself nodding. Felt miles away from his body.

“Good. She’s put a lot of things right for me. Helped me become half the man I thought I was. I’m gonna give you her card. If you want to talk to her or anyone else, time will be made for you.” A breath trembled. “And I know…I know you might not believe this anymore, but my door’s open. It always will be for you.”

The tears were falling now. Blinding and hot. Stripping him, crushing him, burning him—

But Mormont put a hand on his back and stayed with him while he wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's always a point in the healing process when you actually lance the wound, and all the rot and pain comes surging back out. And Jon, both fortunately and unfortunately, finally faced that here.
> 
> Not just that he was attacked, but that it wounded him mentally and emotionally. That he lost years to his trauma by living a life that wasn't actually full, and even stunted. It was happy in brief moments, yes, but I think it's pretty clear now how much Jon was missing out on.
> 
> In the books with our boy Snow being the "hero", Mormont as the mentor was absolutely slated for death. I always thought though that it would have been more interesting if he'd lived--if he had to cope with the guilt of what the Watch became, and his failures that led it there.
> 
> I've always found that when men call a thing a "necessary evil", they really mean "a thing I find inconvenient and don't want to spend the political capital to fix". And well, here's a Mormont who has to face every "necessary evil" he ever accepted. One of them being that poaching ring he turned a blind eye to inside the Watch. Back then, he was alright with Jon being assigned to the Freefolk thing because one less poaching ring was still one less (even if it benefited certain parties). The only defense Mormont has in this, is that he didn't have any idea how horribly it would spiral out of control, and would have made very different choices had he known.
> 
> Why didn't Mormont reach out to Jon earlier? The Jon who joined the VFS was a basket case, and was given lots of assignments where he just got to wander alone in the woods for months. By the time he came off those, he was the Jon we'd recognize now. High functioning, seemingly fine, and seemingly having his shit together--and absolutely not doing any of that. We don't see this because it occurs pre-fic, but Mormont's been probing at Jon a long time trying to figure out if things are actually fixed with him. There were also probably some very pointed references to the health care plan and the counseling available when Jon joined on--not that our boy wasn't ready to deal with it then. You can't make the horse drink or the Ranger go to therapy.
> 
> The old man just didn't want to make things worse than he already had, and perhaps was more cautious than he should have been.
> 
> But it wasn't until this night, in this chapter, that Mormont realized that nothing had been fixed.
> 
> And it's just important to me that men are shown discussing their raw feelings. Apologizing. Weeping. Reaching out, even after all these years, to admit their mistakes and try to help. Accept that maybe that help won't be taken. That's it's too little, too late, and has been for a long while. Understand their fault and own up to it. No deflecting. No water under the bridge. No pretending that they didn't hurt someone.
> 
> It's a dark moment now, but Jon needed this out. To understand he needs help. To know that far more people than he realized have cared about him and tried to reach out. To have all the facts and truth, even when they're ugly.
> 
> It's a heavy thing. But I swear, everything in this story will be more cheerful from here on out. Any questions, FEELS, or general !!!!!!—hit me up in the comments.
> 
> I think it might be 3 more chapters after this. And the next chapter is where the rubber really starts to meet the road. We're in the endgame, people.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart manips for Come Down Like an Avalanche by SainTalia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27254170) by [Norrlands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norrlands/pseuds/Norrlands)




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